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Auction?
How could they have an auction after the deaths?
Dale reached for a little plastic tub of potato salad. Three of the half sandwiches had evaporated while he’d been listening to Langton. He didn’t have the energy to be annoyed about it, though. He’d almost been crushed by a falling body this morning. The warm soothing carbohydrate glow already starting to radiate from his center was the only comfort he had.
Eating was a terrible way to cope with stress. Just terrible.
Salads for a month after this. You’ll wish for bugs and gravel. As a treat.
He found it hard to care about the future, though.
The hard plastic seat dug into his thighs and the edges of his back. He abstractly knew that overeating would just make that worse—but that was a problem for tomorrow.
He had to sur
