State police recovered the enclosed journal a few miles from the murder scene and thirty minutes from the station near Timberdoodle trail. They have not publicly connected it to the crime, but staties filed it into evidence. Please advise.

Entry 1:

Found a dead fox only 30 feet from camp, its entrails spilled on melted snow. Must’ve caught scent of the food I’d left out.

[Did I leave any food out? I’d fried several strips of Farmer’s Fresh Bacon, but can’t remember if that was last night or the night previous.]

Vowed to be more careful with food. Stupid mistakes get you killed. Even found scabs on my ankle – still can’t really tell what it is. The skin’s red and swollen but doesn’t hurt to touch. No impact on walking or any other motor functions – shouldn’t be of any real concern.

The disemboweled fox blocked the exit to camp on the path that winds around the boulders and away from the Cartesian forest. Had to clear the carcass out of the way. Got a branch and used it like a shovel—hoisted the corpse in the air, minded the ice, found a smooth uncovered 4×4 plot of dirt and grass a few hundred yards from camp. Sun lit up through the canopy like light pouring through a cathedral window onto an open casket. Dew dripped from the tips of frozen branches and tickled the ground: tap tap tap.

Took a fist-sized rock and dug a shallow grave down to my wrists. It was all the earth would allow. I lowered the body inside and pushed the pile of dirt over it. I had all but ran out of food from my last excursion, but was not about to risk illness with a dead animal.

Said a few words of remembrance – reflected on the struggle for life, survival of the fittest, etc. The speech was rousing / impressive but I don’t remember a word of it now, or else would have rewritten it verbatim.

[Not sure if I spoke anything aloud or just thought of it all in my head. I read in the latest Time Magazine that the brain cannot distinguish between real time occurrence and post-hoc recall, or so a study shows.]

After the business with the fox, I crawled back to camp and laid in my tent for over 20 mins mulling over the whole ordeal. Tried to break the ice in the bucket. Bashed it repeatedly without any promising results. Figured that it’d thaw enough by sunrise to get a pot of boiling water rolling, and then could dunk my socks and remove the filth caked to them. They still retain the stink of unwashed feet—like moldy jam and sweat. Remove socks when wet, not shortly after, but immediately.

QUESTION: How’d it die? Did it catch my scent, climb the hill, and split its stomach on a jagged rock? Did something kill it and leave it to die, got bored with its meal, or just killed it for the sick pleasure?

Doesn’t help being alone while parsing such questions. Can only write by the light of the moon these days.

Remain humble esp. when confronting the unknown.

Won’t spend much longer pondering the situation. There’s blood on the side of my hand from burying its body. Going to wash it in the stream 1 mile down the path, listen to the world around me: squirrels’ll bicker b/c I’ll be too close to their tree/home; birds’ll dart around above to find somewhere warmer—a tree’ll moan and crack, shedding one of its limbs and a sheet of snow. There won’t be anyone for miles.

TO-DO:

Need more food; supplies are low.

Need to make double-sure that I’ve cleaned up after myself at night.

Wash hands in the stream even when I’m too tired.

Conduct a second sweep of the path that leads out of the camp.

Need to devise a way to keep water from turning into a solid block of ice overnight.

Entry 2:

Found an actual working wrist-watch so waking has been much easier: 2:10 AM in the crisp air at God’s hour: the trees hold their breath and nothing dares break the perfect stillness ‘neath the stars [WHITMAN YES].

Spring’s rounding the corner and so a change is sweeping through. It’s probably warm enough now to sleep into the coldest nethers of the night but can never be too careful. I’ll continue rising early to keep the blood pumping through the veins/arteries and not let the pipes freeze. I have awoken encased in a sleeping bag, ice crawling across my chest like a straight jacket, immobile and faltering pulse etc. Enough to adopt a nocturnal lifestyle, ensure that I’m safe and surviving.

I’ve spent several hours peeping in the bushes outside a rich cabin getaway, eavesdropping on a husband&wife – they’ve been discussing travel plans south. Said they’d be gone for the next week at least. It’s the best chance I’ve had in months.

But couldn’t just go trudging up to the front door like a belligerent freeloader. I had to prep.

Lit the bunsen burner and did 72 laps [counted each one] around the perimeter of camp to get the liquids moving from toes to cranium, and back and forth.

Strapped a screwdriver to my hip, and layered up—long underwear, 4 pairs of soleless socks [one tied around the neck], night-sky pajama bottoms, Highland boots, extra hoodie, ski jacket, emergency hand/feet warmers, beanie, gloves, two pairs of boxer briefs, and what was left of the jerky I’d saved. Felt like a marshmallow man underneath it all. Imagined rolling across the ground like a rock collecting moss, tumbling and hurtling down a hillside in an anonymous plot of land. While strapping up, I noticed an unsightly pelt of hair on the backside of my hand. At least it could help insulate the heat.

Be grateful for what you have.

Set off with a dull pain in my lower back [age is outrunning experience].

The boulders had become slick with ice. Butt-crawled most of the descent. Worked my way down the incline and onto flatter land.

Checked the watch: a brisk 60 mins had already passed.

Had to hurry—the moon hung like a flickering and dying lamp, a patchwork of early morning clouds passing over, energy waning and waxing with it; and by the time I arrived, the sky was placid as a lake. Body heat was up from the jog, so I returned the beanie to the pack. Flicked up my hood, a lone bead of sweat snaking between my eyes. Cool air rushed in, tickled the beard, made my eyes water.

I crouched—waited 20 min, peering down the winding, forested road leading to the garage door. Waited for strange shapes to resolve themselves into bushes, trees, and snow piles. Caught a few phantoms in the peripherals, and a closer look revealed them for what they were – just a bit of photopsia and faint reflections of the moon. Noticed that husband&wife had left their BMW parked in the driveway, encased in ice, but I immediately dashed the thought of carjacking.

Breathing slowed—waited til silence remained constant for several minutes [counted prime numbers to 167, then backwards from 31]. Got to work.

Jammed the screwdriver into the back doorknob. Jiggled but it wouldn’t give.

Got frustrated/careless and tried to take the damn thing off its hinges. Refocused and self-corrected.

Never lose your cool esp. during a break-in.

Inserted the slot-head at a 45 deg. angle, rotated the knob to the left. It clicked. I turned it to the right and the door swung inside the living room.

Stench of pine-scent and lemon assaulted the nostrils right away. The place had been cleaned within the past 24 hrs. Someone else had a key and access to the premises.

I couldn’t waste any more time.

I found the pantry and took the non-perishables on the shelf: black beans, beef chili, “homegrown” corn, green peas, sausage gravy, tomato sauce, pan noodles, french onion soup, Cape Cod chips, crunchy peanut butter, paper towels, silverware, a painted plate [for the collection], and an oven mitt.

Checked the fridge. Found a dozen eggs—not sure how long they’d been there or if they were far past their expiration date [nothing on the carton], so I took half of them for frying.

I ventured into the bathroom and found several rolls of toilet paper. Stuffed the only two that would fit in the pack, now heavy. Quite heavy. Set it on the bathmat.

Caught sight of the shower curtain. It’d been pulled closed. I eased it open, half-expecting that something hidden inside waited to pounce on me.

Empty—of course.

Then I had a short-lived debate:

Yes

No

Yes. Your feet are filthy. Your hands, too.

Almost black!

Gave into temptation so I shed my clothes and stepped inside. Grappled with the curtain and steadied myself on the slick floor.

The water spat forth as soon as I touched the knob.

It stung and I howled—jumped away from the stream of boiling water. Amazed that it had been hot so immediately. I eased myself back into it: first a foot, then a leg, then arms, stomach, and head. It was numbing. I laid my head against the tile, let the steam rise all around, watched torrents of dirt/excrement rinse off of my body. Lost all control and peed into the drain; it was tinged red with blood.

But I hardly acknowledged it, and almost fell asleep anyway. There were tiles with yellow lilies painted on the porcelain and they formed a complete portrait around the half-moon of the shower; I followed the patterns for a time and forgot about myself, the winter, etc.

Heard a creak in the floorboards and my body jolted to attention. I shut it off, scrambled out.

I pulled one foot out of the steam and landed on the shag bathmat. I drew the rest of my body out of the shower and stretched my limbs.

Saw a figure at the door, swallowed in shadow – a misshapen savage. It must have been waiting the whole time to slit my throat.

Heart dropped to my stomach. Half-digested food threatened to spoil the floor.

I held up my hands in pathetic self-defense, and I yelped. Saw the figure shrink, aping my movement.

Just a reflection: a body-sized mirror bolted to the back of the door.

Flushed hot with embarrassment, I got dressed, unable to look myself in the face. I hadn’t seen myself in three years and I wasn’t about to start then. I packed my things and ran for the door.

It was an important lesson in not wasting time, especially for an unnecessary shower.

But I had to stop for one last thing: the bookshelf. That was a non-negotiable. I nabbed a few for the collection: book called Station Eleven, the latest Dean Koontz, and ah! the holy grail—a copy of Ulysses [my second one!], this edition with Joyce sporting an eyepatch for his glaucoma: leeched, rugged and life-worn.

Made for the door after these last few luxuries but was stopped again. All these delays! What sloppy work.

There was a note resting on the breakfast bar that I’d sworn hadn’t been there before:

DEAR HERMIT,

Please don’t break in again. Leave us a list of what you need and we’ll be happy to provide it for you.

Best,

Mr. and Mrs. Linderman

I had the distinct feeling of being watched—dropped the note like it was poisoned and rushed for the exit, peering over my shoulder, desperate to spot my pursuers.

Forgot to even close the door and couldn’t shake that sick feeling until I was home again, panting and exhausted. The sun was cresting the horizon and as soon as I laid my body on the floor of the tent, I fell asleep.

I woke, began writing, and prepped the eggs for dinner.

TO DO:

Never go near the husband&wife cabin again. Triple underline.

Junie woke up in the whale, still half-dreaming of the birds, approximately twenty minutes after her mama had put her inside of it.

---

By the time the McIntyres won the Expedition Lottery, Jakarta, New Orleans, and Manila had already been swallowed by the Big Blue. It was thus known by everyone on the cul-de-sac of Milkweed Street—as well as every other living being—that in a month, the Big Blue was to come for the rest of the Earth.

As for Junie, she was the last to talk to Lucas McIntyre before he left. They lived across the street from each other in a lonely North Carolinian suburb and talked occasionally in class. Lucas had knocked on Junie’s door during breakfast and begged her to take his birds. Thirty minutes later, she was standing on the McIntyres’ muddy driveway, water from the coast licking the bottom of her rain boots.

Mr. McIntyre came out of their peach-colored house with two light backpacks. He threw them into the trunk and leaned against the car, lighting a cigarette.

“Thanks for taking ‘em, Junie,” he said.

Lucas hoisted the birdcage into Junie’s hands. Inside, two beautiful green budgies scuttled back and forth across their shared perch, twittering for food.

“Gizmo likes sunflower seeds,” Lucas said, poking his finger into the top of their cage. “And Pip likes cashews.”

“Lucas,” Mr. McIntyre said, getting into the driver’s seat. “We don’t want to be late.”

Lucas followed, dragging his feet, then seemed to remember that Junie was not coming with him.

“Out of all of us, your mama applied the earliest,” he said. “My dad said Ms. Fajardo should hear back soon.”

Then, Lucas was gone, his dad’s Honda Accord treading carefully on the water creeping into their suburb, and Junie took the chirping avians inside.

---

One fact to know about Junie is that for the vast majority of her early childhood, she had made it a habit to sleep past the loudest sounds and the most calamitous disasters.

A large part of this peculiar talent was due to her mama, Bernila Fajardo, who knew exactly how to put her to bed. It was a familiar and formulaic process, needing only a gentle pat-pat-pat with the fat part of her palm on Junie’s skin; in seconds, Junie would be rendered soundless, dozing steadily into some saccharine sub-reality.

For that reason, Junie had no recollection of the night after Lucas left, when an animal’s song had awakened Bernila in the middle of an empty dream. The song was a melody of pleasant groans and delightful chirpings, and it lasted approximately nine minutes before it rang out again, considerably louder the second time, shaking the house.

When Junie flipped on her side, fluttering her dainty eyelashes, her mama said, “Matulog ka na, love,” and pat-pat-patted the small of her back.

Junie mumbled, “Are those the birds again, Mama?”

“No, anak. It’s the balyena,” Bernila said. “Do you know what a balyena is, Junie?”

But by then, Junie’s head had tilted back into her pillow, and she was already fast asleep.

---

After the McIntyres, it was the Rutherfords, then it was the Dengs, then the Garcias and the Mukherjees. They were told to take no clothes, no perishables, and no pets. They were to leave their sinking houses behind, do whatever they wanted with their finances—which would be useless in space, anyway—and bring only their dearest valuables. Julia Deng tried to take her succulent, but she was reportedly detained at the Expedition station for bringing a live specimen, and was herded into another ship without her family.

While one-third of Sesame County’s second-grade class and their families had made it to Mars, Venus, and whatever dwarf planets or inhabitable moons the Expeditioners could colonize, Junie’s mama stood every day at the mailbox, waiting for the mailman. He’d come at 2 p.m. every day, his truck splashing water along the wet curbs, and each time he reached Junie’s house, he’d have nothing to give.

“Maybe tomorrow, Bernila,” he would say. And then the next day, he’d say it again. “Maybe tomorrow.”

After three tomorrows, Junie began to watch her Mama from the porch. The phones and the Internet were finally down in their part of the state. The sea spat up multiple dolphins along the submerged coastal region, and they, in their blissful confusion, had stranded themselves near the central power lines. The empty suburb all looked the same now—indistinguishable white houses with darkened windows slowly being gulped by rising Blue.

When the mailman came, Junie overheard him tell her mother, “We were chosen. Me and my family.”

Bernila clicked her tongue, pursed her mouth firmly. “When are you leaving?”

“Soon as I can get home to my wife. All roads to DC will be blocked come morning.”

Junie kicked away at the small crabs snipping curiously at her toes. Barnacles had begun sticking to the columns of their house, decorating the front door. The air was all saline, so bloated with it that it burned her eyes and nose.

“One more thing,” Junie overheard the mailman say. “Postal service is stopping in many counties. The Expedition says there are no spots left.”

Bernila went stock-still. “They promised.” Pinched, pinched at the fluffy fabric of her bathrobe collar. “I put our names in way before all this . . . even before the first city went under.”

He put a hand on her elbow. “Y’all take care.”

He got back into his truck, his engine sputtering, and he did Bernila Fajardo the kindness of gently accelerating so as to not splash water on her pajama pants. Once the mailman was out of sight, Junie watched her mama stomp her foot and lift her chin to the searing sun.

“Fuck!” Her voice echoed throughout their empty suburb— “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”—skipping across the water, then sinking like a heavy stone.