When the sun goes down, the storms begin. Every night it is like this. They come in waves, one then the next, as regular as breathing. Goes on all night. Impossible to sleep.

Days are worse: air heavy and foul, fog draped over everything, a rag on a puddle. When the sun does come out, the earth steams. But then it's gone, and the haze hangs in the sodden air.

Everything is soaked. Fire's impossible: nothing can be kept dry.

I cannot bear this. None of us can. Our numbers dwindle, one by one — some leave, some die — and we didn't have many to start. A couple young men try to make plans, but it's just something to do, something to keep from listening to the endless drip drip drip. Nowhere to go. Too much effort to move at all.