Bella’s rage keeps her going. She even managed to keep her spirits up after the first death. An older lady. I suspect it was a heart attack or a brain aneurysm as it was very sudden, but I don’t know. I’m not a doctor. There are no doctors or nurses on board. The second death was a suicide. That was hard to take. I didn’t see him but I heard the splash and then the wave of shocked murmurs and shouts that spread through the boat. Apparently his son had died back home. He had mentioned it to someone a few days before.
Out of the three hundred people on the boat we started with, we’re down to 288. Six have died from a lack of insulin, one from a seizure that resulted in hitting their head. There have been four suicides and the heart attack lady. （Again, I don’t know for definite it was a heart attack but I don’t remember her name, Jojo? Janice? Jane? So, heart attack lady it is.）
We have a rationing system in place. There’s a Swedish dietitian on board who calculated a minimum calorie requirement for everyone on board based on their weight. One man tried to lie about his weight to get more food. The dietitian punished him by reducing it. That was an uncomfortable few hours.
I hope Frances is okay. Frances, in case I die and this ship is discovered, I’ll make it clearer so this letter definitely reaches you. I am Toby Benedict Williams. My wife is Frances Emma Williams. We live in Flat C, 4 Clerkenwell Road, London EC1V 9TB. If someone finds this, please pass it on to her.
Frances, I love you. I just want you to be happy. It’s all I ever wanted. I wish we had found each other earlier than we did but we’ve packed more love and adventure into twenty years than most people do in sixty. You’re the best person. Just the absolute best. I hope I see you again.
AMANDA
Glasgow, the Independent Republic of Scotland
Day 107
I am officially the worst at meditating. I’ve tried it every day for three days, wanting to move away from my addiction to the news, and have become more depressed than I’ve been in months. Meditating is shit—there I said it. “Redirect your thoughts,” the app said. “Focus your mind.” No fucking thank you. I have nothing good to redirect my thoughts to. So instead I’m making sure to maintain my regimen of noise. Silence is not welcome in my mind right now. I’ve become obsessed with a YouTube channel of professional cooks in a kitchen. They have playful banter and silly challenges and cook delightful, buttery pastries that make my mouth water. It distracts me and tricks my brain into feeling less alone and like everything is the way it used to be. It can turn on a dime and in a moment—an expression on someone’s face, the mention of a teenage son—I’ll want to throw my phone out of the window and scream that I used to cook for my children. I used to care about pastry crust. I used to sit at the table with my family and eat together. Sometimes it’s a comfort, sometimes it’s a cruel reminder.
The ferry to the Isle of Bute is a bumpy one and my phone screen wobbles as I try to hear the tinny voice of my favorite chef, a redhead with freckles and the calm, clear manner of an experienced teacher. She makes a comment about cooking leftovers that your teenagers can eat when they’re hungry. The coin has turned; there’s too much pain to watch. I stare out of the window at the waves and the gray landscape. I used to love coming out to the islands. The combination of clean, salty air on a crisp, cold day would ease the knots of anxiety winding themselves around me. The boys would run around like hooligans, delighted not to be told to calm down, sit down, pipe down. Will and I would amble along, arm in arm, and it would feel like we worked so hard for most of the year to earn this time and feel so at ease.
The Rothesay port comes into view and I’m dragged back into the present. The lack of cars on the ferry is a jolting reminder of how things have changed. Gasoline is so expensive I’ve been using my ancient bike I hadn’t used in a decade. I have the details of the person I’m here to see and I wish I could say she was waiting for me, but I fear nothing could be further from the truth.
Heather Fraser, widow of Euan Fraser. Thanks to me, it’s been widely reported that Euan was Patient Zero. The Isle of Bute is a tiny island; everyone knows everyone. Journalists sniffing around were pointed in the direction of Heather, where they came to a dead end. She was not for talking, or being interviewed, or being paid, or being bothered. She was grieving and her husband had been reduced to a title. Patient Zero. No name, just death.