It’s midnight on Wednesday 16 March 2095. I don’t know what the temperature is.

Over the past two days, things have got worse, far worse.

A cholera outbreak that began in Warehouse Eleven is tearing through the camp. The death rate is alarmingly high – almost fifty per cent don’t recover.

I have lost all hope of outside help arriving.

We are utterly alone.

I gave up. I couldn’t see any way forward.

Then someone threw us a lifeline. A way to really help people.

But I don’t think I can make the choice they want me to make.

I don’t know what to do.

Days in the camp: 123