I hadn’t seen him in ten years the day he picked me up in front of a tired-looking cafe, in the same beat-up gray pickup truck he’d had since as far back as I could rememeber.

I looked at him for a long moment. His arms were still long and thin. Freckles still dotted the bridge of his nose, which was small but not unattractive. And his eyes were still the most pure shade of green.

But he was almost as tired-looking as the cafe and I could tell he was restless.

His small apartment was cluttered with pages upon pages, from a novel he was writing.

When he smiled, it didn’t reach his eyes.

Coffee mugs were scattered everywhere, except the sink.

“I just… I’m in a rut, you know? Sometimes I feel like I gotta get out of here, Lizzy. Sometimes I don’t think I’ll ever finish this.”

”’YOU’VE GOT TO LEARN TO FOLLOW THINGS THROUGH – IF YOU CARE ABOUT SOMETHING , YOU’VE GOT TO TRY TO FINISH IT ,’” I quoted.

He smiled again. “Irving?” he asked.

“Yeah. A Prayer for Owen Meany.”