My brother is missing. I stand by that. The police have long concluded their search of the northern Michigan woods known as the Seney Stretch. They're convinced he's dead. Even his girlfriend is convinced that he's dead. But I'm not. I can't be, especially not now. I have proof that he's not dead. At least, I hope this is proof.
A few days ago, while I was writing something, someone dropped a package at my front door and ran off. It was wrapped in plain brown paper, and there was some scribbling on it. In retrospect, I should have saved it, but I tossed it out. My own damn fault. Inside it was a manuscript. I've spent the whole time since I got it reading it, stopping only to sleep and eat, and I just finished it, for the twentieth time, this morning. It's an incomplete manuscript, apparently titled "Day Four", and it appears to have been written by my brother. It references myself, and his girlfriend, and the intentional trip to the woods, but it tells a slightly different tale from what we've been given to understand.
Apparently, he went to a surprise party for a mutual friend (his name is Alan; I was also at the party), and on his way back to his car, he was shot in the leg. According to his manuscript, he managed to crawl to an abandoned house (possibly the same one the police found his car in?), and passed out. When he woke up, he was on an island. And...so far, that's all I've been able to understand. He wrote down five days' worth of rambling storytelling in the process of describing what happened to him.
I'm really worried now.