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We had to bury another member of our camp today, a man named Donald. He broke his leg really bad in the crash, and it apparently got infected, and there was no way to treat it without any medical supplies, so it just kept getting worse until he died. I don't understand why it's taking so long for anybody to find us. Sure, we were off-course according to Cindy the flight attendant, but still, it's been five days now; you'd think they would've covered this area by now.
I'm sure the disappearance of our plane is really big news back home, and a lot of people must be worried. I can't help but wonder how Vicki is reacting to the whole thing -- whether she regrets cancelling the wedding and prompting me to go to Australia alone, or if she's just glad that she wasn't traveling with me. Then again, she might have no clue that I was on that plane, since I'd changed the date of my return flight. Maybe it's bad for me to be dwelling on those thoughts, but I think it's helping me cope with our situation here.
Speaking of coping, I'm a little concerned about the tall African guy. As far as I know, he hasn't spoken a word since the first night, when he killed those two men in self-defense. He does not look like a kind of person that I'd want to see go crazy amongst us!