I'm running out of room in my notebook. I'm going to have to find a new one if I want to keep this going. Michael doesn't seem to get why I write this stuff down, but Nicole does I think. Sometimes I feel like it's someone's job to keep some kind of record of things. Other times I feel like getting this stuff out of my head and onto paper is the only way to keep it from driving me insane.
Michael was shot at while he was looking for fresh water yesterday. No doubt it was James. I can't for the life of me figure out how this shit has gone this far. What's the fucking point? What's he getting out of this? Luckily the shots missed, but Mike's rattled.
I've been combing over our new "home du jour" since we move around so much to avoid James and the horde of dead people outside. I found what I thought was some kind of weird key to a safe or something, but it turns out it's a Swedish FireSteel. Even more valuable. With this thing we can have a campfire in minutes so long as we have tinder, and we don't have to worry about lighters that run out of fuel or break. It's my newest most favorite possession.