I’m about to write the most intrinsically obvious sentence ever written. I suppose it’s a tautology (look it up).
I’m not dead yet.
It’s been six days cooped up in the house. I know the virus has reached Tallahassee. I can connect to various web cams people set up. There’s absolutely no one alive outside and I can see a few bodies and cars just stopped in the road. There’s a web cam pointed at the hospital, but I don’t want to see that nightmare. It’s where the desperate went, in a vain hope of medical salvation.
I didn’t really seal my house, so the virus should be floating in the air all around me. It should have made its home in my cells and begun copying itself as it killed me.
But I’m still alive. I can’t overemphasize the importance of that.
This means one of two things. Either I’m immune or some freak of construction has kept this little house perfectly sealed. Both are highly unlikely, but I have the evidence before me. Namely that I’m still breathing. When people say things like “one in a million” they mean it to say that something will never happen. But one in a million does happen.
And so does 1 in 9,600. Mathematically, it’s really quite expected. Whoever is reading this will probably find 9,599 other journals from people who didn’t survive. Someone has to be to the one.
I am going to open the door in a few minutes. It’s dark out now, so I won’t go anywhere until the morning. If it kills me, it won’t take very long and I want to die here. I love this little house.
I’m setting this journal aside, in a safe place that should let it last a while. If I die maybe some survivor will read it someday.
If I live when I step out of that door, I’ll have one thought on my mind.