7/13 6:00 PM

I've gotta get out of here. The more I look at this house, the more I realize I'm not the first one to make my way through it. The previous squatter was neater than me, but there is no way Mr. Fisherman would have cleared out every nook and cranny of any foodlike substance. Not even a can of cream of mushroom soup to be had. Just isn't natural.

As I look out the upstairs window, I realize that this neighborhood will be my graveyard, if I let it be. The problem is, I don't know where to go. I made it here under cover of night last time, and Rob was the one who knew the area. But I can’t think about him. He’s gone.

Last I heard, all of Knox was under quarantine. I'd rather not set off into the picket line and get myself shot to pieces by the quarantine.

Can't even see where I'm at, have no real idea where I can go. I need to get my bearings. And it looks like the only place taller than the top of the uniform two story houses is in the front yard.

Mr Fisherman must have had a kid. Must have even been a good Dad. With that huge oak out front, who could have refused their son? A five story tree, a treefort, and even a kid sized wooden ladder. That should elevate me just fine above this muck.