Kayla's been taking care of me. When I woke up yesterday, I hurt. Well, my shoulder hurt and Kayla - or really more of Dr. Thornton, was there with pain medications and orders for me to rest my shoulder. I think I protested, but then I don't remember much until I woke up this morning.

I asked Kayla for my journal. I think she was surprised, because she brought it and then made me swear to only write for a few minutes.

Anyway, we're in a farmhouse somewhere in Indiana from what I could get out of Kayla. She told me that I'd been shot and needed to rest and that in a few days we'd start my physical therapy.

She didn't have to tell me about the being shot. I remembered that part.

I don't know how she did it - I've seen the wound without the bandages and it's clean and not infected. "Minimal scarring," Kayla promised. As if I care about that. I'm just glad that I saved her.

Dr. Thornton is either drugging me, or I'm really out of it. I think I'm going to sleep for a week.

I don't want to alarm Kayla, so I haven't made a big deal about it, but I think that we're being followed. I want to think that it's a fellow survivor who's scared to show his or her face, but I know that I have to be cautious too. I wasn't so deep in the bottle that I don't know about the madness and mob mentality that took over before everything fell apart. I'm trying to beat the sun and get us to Chicago by nightfall, or at least somewhere where we can sleep indoors and hole up for the night. Somewhere defensive. (Unfortunately, we can't keep to the main roads, we keep running into places where they're blocked or congested. We stayed in Springfield an extra day because Kayla liked the campus and then she wanted to go south and see Kings Island Amusement Park. It wasn't very impressive all still and dead.)

I unpacked the guns while Kayla was "powdering her nose," and although she didn't ask, I know that she's curious. I told her that I just though we should have them close, just in case we needed to protect ourselves.

"We haven't seen anyone since we left Mount Union," Kayla pointed out.

"Better safe than sorry and Chicago is a big city," I told her.

I don't know if she believed me. What I do know is that I've heard a truck or van of some sort for several days now. I don't like that they won't show themselves, but I hope that I'm only being paranoid.

Kayla gave me this and told me that I should write in it. She suggested that it would be a good way to remember Lu and Milagro, but I didn't think it was a good idea. I forgot all about this book until I was looking through my duffel bag, trying to find some clean clothes. I never thought that I would miss electricity and washing machines and dryers.

Kayla's a good woman. She's been hand-washing our stuff when necessary, although I won't let her touch my underwear. That's a bit too intimate. And she puts up with a lot from me. I know that I'm laconic and moody sometimes, especially when I start to think too much about Lu and mi hija, but she tolerates it. She even tolerates and takes care of Aunt Millie because she knows that Aunt Millie is all I have left of my mother.

I just didn't realize how much she understands me until I found this book. I shoved it in my bag, but I wasn't the one that packed Lu's favorite robe or Milagro's blanket. I know that I didn't pack those. I tried to leave all those memories behind . . . and I had to wonder what else Kayla snuck in.

There's a whole box that I didn't know anything about. A box of memories. Pictures and trinkets and clothing. I guess she thought I would want it eventually even if I didn't. I still don't know what to do with it. It made me cry to simply see those things and I closed the box back up tight. But it made me realize too that Kayla needs and deserves more than I've been giving her. Actually, I haven't been giving her anything, I've been taking. So, tonight I gave her a Memorial Day barbecue. I think she was pretty happy about it too. She told me the tears were happy tears.

Tomorrow we're going to leave the cornfields and random small towns behind. If we head on straight to Chicago, we should be there by tomorrow night. It's the very least I can do for her considering that I know how much she hates the corn. Her "Children of the Corn" references haven't been completely lost on me.