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BY EDITH RUSSO

POSTAPOCALYPTIC PEACH “COBBLER”

Ingredients:

1 can of peaches

1 crumbled protein bar

A sprinkle of instant coffee grounds (for “spice”)

Instructions:

Layer the peaches and crushed protein bar in an empty tuna can. Try not to think too hard about the fact that this is being assembled in something that once smelled like fish. We are focusing on dessert. Dessert is hope.

Sprinkle the coffee grounds over the top like it’s cinnamon. Congratulations. You have just invented the saddest dessert in history.

Serve with confidence anyway. If anyone complains, remind them dessert is a gift, not a guarantee.

MIDNIGHT RATIONS MOOD FIX

Ingredients:

1 can of sweetened condensed milk

Crushed candy bar (whatever you’ve got on hand)

One spoon. Yours. Only yours.

Instructions:

Mix the crushed candy bar into the condensed milk and eat it straight from the can.

Do not make eye contact. Eye contact invites questions. Questions invite sharing. This is not for sharing.

This is a private little moment between you, your spoon, and whatever scraps of joy the end of the world has not managed to steal yet.

Call it self-care. Call it survival. Call it none of anyone’s business.

Scratch Saga: Do NOT use a stick. You will end up with scratches, and your loving yet deeply annoyed doctor will fuss over you for days after giving you a very proper tongue-lashing first. The worst part is, she’ll be right. I taught her too well.

THIRTY-ONE

MISSING

LEON

By the time we leave the mall, the sun is sinking behind Chicago, turning the windows red.

Fitting.

The whole place feels like a mouth waiting to close.

We spent hours circling it, slipping through service alleys, loading docks, maintenance corridors, and back halls that smelled like mold, old fryer grease, and burning flesh. Not deep enough to get stupid. Just deep enough to understand the shape of the problem.

Movement behind the upper windows. Guards near the back entrance. Trucks parked near the old food court doors. Smoke rising from somewhere on the roof.

The stink of it clings to my jacket as we move away, and every few blocks, I check the rooftops even when I know we’re clear. Chicago has teeth everywhere. Windows. Alleys. Empty cars. Places for people to watch from.