Packed again.

I've made something to walk on out of wood and leather. Calling it a prosthesis would be generous. It's ugly, and after a while it rubs, but I can get around with it. I've spent the last few days trying it in the house and out by the garage.

Caught my reflection in the kitchen window yesterday. I look like a pirate with this wooden leg. Actually laughed at myself for a moment.

The crutches are strapped to the backpack. If my leg changes again, I don't want to find myself miles from the stairs with nothing I can use.

I've packed food and water this time. Enough that the bag is a struggle to lift. Spare batteries, the lights, the camera and a stack of Hi8 tapes. I keep taking things out to check them, then having to fit everything back in.

I'm assuming that everything I left downstairs is gone. If I find any of it, fine. I won't be depending on it.

I want to reach the other house again. The route in the notebook clearly isn't reliable, so I'll have to work it out as I go. I'm taking more paper.

And I keep thinking about whoever I heard running.

I've spent so much time trying to explain the date and my leg that I've almost stopped mentioning him. But I remember switching on the flashlight. I remember the footsteps moving away.

If there's someone living down there, he may know how to get through. He may have seen the passages change. I want to ask him how he finds his way.

I tried the camera before packing it. Filmed the kitchen, played it back on the little television. Everything worked. I've put a fresh tape in and written HOME on the one I used for the test.

Rachel's number is still beside the phone. I haven't called her or the clinic.

I'll eat something before I leave. The bag is too awkward to carry down the basement stairs, so I've already taken it down separately. The crutches caught on the doorframe twice.