journal_day30.txt

This is it.

Temp 22. Air quality MODERATE and stable. Cold but breathable. As good as it's going to get.

I'm wrapped in three blankets. Pillowcases on my hands and around my neck. Soaked a dish towel to hold over my mouth in case the air is worse than the sensors say.

If anyone finds this: I was here for thirty days. I survived because I read a newsletter everyone thought was crazy and stashed some food in a bunker I was supposed to clean.

I survived because I was lucky. And paranoid. And alone.

I don't know what's outside. I don't know if I'll last an hour or a day or if I'll find other people or just frozen wasteland.

But I'm going.

The door opens from the inside. One spin of the wheel. Then the hatch. Then whatever's left.

My truck is out there somewhere. Maybe buried in ash. Maybe frozen. Maybe gone.

But maybe not.

I just want to see the sky again.

Even if it's frozen.

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