Tombstones aren't exactly common any more. You don't see them too often. Not new ones, anyway. But every now and then I see one in my travels. The most elaborate was a block of cement with writing scratched into the surface, probably with a pocket knife. Her name was Sheila. I couldn't read anything else but I took a picture of it. To remember her, whoever she was. Someone thought she was important and I wanted to honor that. I have lots of pictures like it. Stones, pieces of wood, crosses. I think the saddest was a grave in the woods, marked with a children's book. It had been there for a while but I could still read part of the title. Harry P—something. I guess his name was Harry. I took a picture of that one, too.

You need friends or family to remember you, don't you? Someone to care enough to mark your passing? I haven't been at Thunder Mountain long but if anything happened to me, maybe Kurdy would erect something. That's supposing God hasn't sent me off somewhere else to carry another message. Supposing anyone even noticed I was gone.

Whatever happens, if anyone did honor me with a marker, I think I'd like it to say, "He wasn't crazy." I'm not, you know. And when I do die (again), I think what I'd like most of all is to hear that Voice on the other side say, "You did well."