Good lord, I hope Olivia gets back soon. Jess is starting to get delirious, and she's talking, a lot. Sometimes she talks to me as though we are still teenagers, about Rory, in grade 10, the first boy she kissed (she said it was awful). If she was well, and we were reminiscing like normal, this would be a hilarious conversation. As it is, I'm afraid that somebody is going to hear her.
She feels like a furnace now, and I've exhausted most of the water jugs that are inside. There is nothing here to give her, and the bottle of junior strength Ibuprofen I kept in the motorhome is nearly empty and hasn't made a dent in her fever. It just keeps climbing as far as I can tell.
My mind keeps going back to the purges. I need Olivia to tell me more. Emily and Vincent, they were supposed to a one-off - an act of extreme paranoia. Frank and Gerald were drunk when they did it. They had to be. There can't really be people allowing this to happen, and if there are ... WHY are we still here?
