The notebook held six months of work. He had written dates on scraps of paper, the backs of homework sheets, the margins of comic books. Twice he had woken to find pages folded into strange shapes. Once, every date had been smeared as if water had soaked through the ink, though the notebook itself was dry.
Tonight he had a new method.
He placed the calendar on the floor and copied each mark onto an index card. The cards lay in rows across the carpet, dated in black pencil. He separated the days he could prove he had been present from the days he remembered only because someone else told him.
March 18. Home.
March 11. Home.
March 4. Home.
February 25. Three hours missing.
February 18. Home.
February 7. Six hours missing.
January 29. Home.
January 16. One day missing.
He leaned back on his heels.
The gaps were closing.
Not neatly. Not evenly. But the missing time came sooner each time.