The Imperfect's Journal: 1

June 6th, 2066

We found an electric car that was still running. The key was inside of it, dropped into the console between the two front seats. Morgan drove while I relaxed in the passenger seat, legs stretched out. Seems we have enough power in the car to get us to the next charging station.

Morgan and I have had a chance to talk, now. I worked up the courage to ask how he lost his arm, and he rather sheepishly explained that it wasn't a war injury, exactly. He was a mechanic in the Air Force and made a mistake. A costly one. He joked that the mistake wasn't as costly as it normally would have been.

"Ordinarily it would have cost me an arm and a leg," he jokingly told me, "but I used my employee discount to get it half off."

I wasn't sure if I was supposed to laugh at that, but I did. It was nice to laugh.

We're parked at a charging station, now. It's eerily abandoned; there has been no sign of life for miles. It seems everyone fled the coast after the bombings, which leads us to suspect that none of the eastern harbors will have a way for us to escape the continent. We're still going to look for the next harbor, though. If it's abandoned, we'll think of a new plan.

Since the charging station is unoccupied, we loaded up on food, snacks, and drinks from the convenience store inside. Jess had no qualms about breaking the glass door to gain entry. In high school, I think she was probably one of those cool, troublemaking girls that always intimidated me--the sort with a dyed mohawk, dark makeup, and a tendency to make "dares" that were more like "suggestions that will hospitalize you".

Odd how it took being a refugee for me to hang out with someone so... cool.
Ugh. How old am I?