Moleskine Grifter

You jog along the highway through a rural, industrial area south of the city. You use this route for Sunday morning runs because no workers commute to the chemical plants on weekends. You have the road to yourself until the faint sound of an engine warns you of an approaching vehicle.

A van comes into view. It eases across the double line; its tires kick up grass and gravel. The driver corrects, swerving lazily back.

You stop running.

The van is approaching fast, and the deep ditches on either side of the road don’t give you anywhere to go.

The van is close enough that you can see the driver’s head snapping to attention every time his tires hit the roadside rumble strips. He’s intoxicated or falling asleep.

You raise your open palms, signaling him to stop, but he doesn’t see you. Your heartbeat quickens. You shift your weight from foot to foot, anticipating his trajectory. He swerves toward you. You roll out of the way as he passes.

You turn around just in time to see both sets of wheels roll off of the pavement as the van careens into the ditch. It completes a full sideways roll. Its bumper digs into the mud and the impact flips the van end-over-end. Somehow it lands right side up.

You sprint over and slide down the embankment.

The driver is hunched over the steering wheel, not moving. Is he dead? His gray hair is matted with blood.

You reach for your phone and realize you left it at home, three miles away. You try to open his door, but it is stuck. You try all the other doors. They’re stuck, too. You yell for help, but no one is around.

You look for something to stop the bleeding. The passenger seat and floorboard are strewn with pots and pans, broken dishes and several cans of food. He must live in here. You spot a pile of clothing on the passenger seat.

After breaking the passenger window with a rock, you grab the clothes and return to the driver’s side. You smash his window, too.

This awakens him. He rotates his neck slightly, and faces you, resting his temple on the steering wheel. His eyes squint in constant pain. He draws a shallow breath and winces. You notice another injury on his forehead.

Grabbing some t-shirts, you press them to his wounds.

He squeezes his eyes closed and groans.

You tell him he’s been in an accident. You’re here to help.

He pushes out airy breaths that have the rhythm of speech, but are little more than wheezes.

The man lifts a shaky hand to his chest and reaches into his suit jacket. He pulls out a black, leather notebook and a pen. You know he wants to write.

You pick up the notebook, flip to a blank page and place it on his lap.

With much effort, he drags the pen across the page. He turns his head back to you when he finishes. You look at the notebook.

The phone number makes you realize he might have a phone. You ask him and rescan the van’s interior. Nothing.

You tell the man you’re going to get help. As you turn away, you hear him groan. When you look back, he is holding out the notebook with an insistent look.

You take it.

Fifteen minutes later, you flag down a couple. They drive you back to the man while you use their phone to call 911.

You tell the dispatcher what you witnessed and where. He assures you emergency vehicles are on their way.

When you get back, a tow truck driver is pulling the van out of the ditch with a winch. You approach him and ask about the man.

“Ambulance left with him about five minutes ago, but he didn’t make it.”

The couple offers you a ride home. You tell them you’ll finish your run. Before they pull away, one of them jumps out of the car and runs over to you.

“You forgot your notebook,” she says, handing it to you.

You say thanks and open the notebook.

You flip through page after page of lists of expensive paintings and sales leads. There is nothing personal about Arturo Castillo here, no soul crushing secrets, no madman’s manifesto. But halfway through the journal, the paintings and prices stop. After several blank pages, the handwriting changes.

You flip through several more blank pages and find a pocket in the back cover of the Moleskine.