Last day of the shortest month, and longest day of my life.
I woke up to a scratching noise down the hall. Seems she is out of bed now and scratching at the door to get out. I thought I might open the door to see if she is OK again, but I know what I’ll find in there. If she hasn’t got the wherewithal to work out the door handle, means her brain is fried and she’s one of them now.
Oh my darling wife. I am so sorry. Somehow I think this must be my fault. I was the one that kept going out into the diseased world. I must have brought it back to her somehow. I can’t think how.
I can’t write any more.