Day 12: No sign of rescue

The water is mostly gone. We are rationing, but there isn't much hope. I try to avoid looking at my friends, as the hallucinations are getting worse. I looked at Dan yesterday right before sunset, and the light glinting off his sunburned face and sweat sheen made him look like the prize Christmas goose in a Dickens movie. I felt my mouth water looking at him. This was Dan! I'd held his daughter the day after she was born, and she vomited on me at her fifth birthday party after eating too much cake and jumping on the inflatable moon bounce, but in that moment, I would have killed him with my bare hands and gnawed his flesh raw from his bones.

The blisters on my back have popped, and they oddly don't hurt anymore. The first aid kit is bare. We've all left notes in this journal for our loved ones, in case this is found someday. Every night I put it in a Ziplock bag that once contained an emergency poncho and weigh it down with a rock, in case I can't get back to it the next day.

I'm feeling really weak. Margot just keeps crying...where on earth does she find the moisture for tears? I can barely wet my mouth with my own spit. Her sobbing gets on my nerves, but I don't have the heart to tell her to stop. At least she has stopped the frantic beachside pacing, the waving at help that isn't going to come.

The last of the bodies washed up two days ago. We stacked them above the tide line, where the waves wouldn't pull them out, after stripping everything of use off of them.

There is no honor left. No honor, no dignity.

Just waiting.