Amythyst’s Journal – Day 3, Safe Harbor Island

Posted on Mon Jun 23rd, 2025 @ 8:33am by New York Survivor Amythyst

437 words; about a 2 minute read

Evening

I’m writing this by flashlight, tucked up in the attic room of the farmhouse, where the roof creaks when the wind shifts. The others are asleep — or pretending to be. I think Patrick is still whispering with Andrew, but I don’t have the energy to check. My back hurts, my knees are sore, and I smell like cow. Which, weirdly, isn’t the worst thing anymore. I will grab a shower soon.

We found cattle today. Actual, real, living cows. In the woods.

Three of them — two big and one calf, all half-wild but not dangerous. They were just there, like the universe decided to throw us a bone for once. We spent hours coaxing them through the trees, across brush, down hills, and into the barn. It was messy and loud and honestly kind of hilarious. I didn’t let myself laugh too much, though. I didn’t want the boys to think I wasn’t taking it seriously.

But gods — we herded cows.

I don’t know if we’ll be able to keep them. I don’t know how to care for livestock. I barely know how to keep the chickens alive, and they mostly manage themselves. But we have a start now. We have something living that depends on us. That gives milk — I think. I’m going to look for books tomorrow. Maybe something survived in the storage room or basement that can help.

The boys were amazing. I don’t think they realize how proud I am of them — how much they helped. Andrew was like a calf whisperer, and Austin’s strength made a difference more than once. Patrick fell in the mud twice and just kept going. That kind of grit... it matters.

There was a moment, right before we got them into the barn, when I looked at the ridge and the trees behind us and thought, this is ours now. Not just the island — but the work, the animals, the future. This island isn’t just a place to hide anymore. It’s starting to feel like something we can build on. Something we can fight for.

Tonight, for the first time in a long time, I feel like maybe we’re going to make it.

Even if I do smell like manure.

—Amy

At the bottom of the journal page, below her writing, is a lightly smudged pencil sketch — three cows standing in the clearing, the smallest one nose-to-nose with Andrew. The lines are rough but expressive. In the corner, she’s written: “Found in the wild. Day 3. Our cows now.”

 

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