CW: Contains themes of extreme survival hardship, intense psychological distress, and morally distressing choices (involving children) under conditions of scarcity.
“Oh, no—no, I couldn’t—”
“Please.” The old man’s voice rasps, a broken whisper, as he pushes the last of his precious rations into her hands. His fingers tremble with effort, the thin skin of his knuckles sharp against frail bone. “No one else is left. I’m done for anyway, and we both know it. At least let me believe it mattered for something. Take it… for your child.”
Lena stares down at the handful of food. So little. It won’t last a day. Her hands tremble, refusing to grip it. “But you won’t make it. You need this.”
“Lena.” His voice steadies, a fleeting trace of strength returning as he reaches out, clasping her fingers around the meager food. His eyes, once dull with exhaustion, now burn with a fierceness that cuts through the surrounding shadows. “I had a daughter once. She didn’t survive the first wave, but I still remember what it felt like… when I couldn’t feed her. That helplessness.” His voice cracks. “Nothing compares to that pain. No matter what horrors have come since. Please, take it.”
Tears blur her vision. Damn him. The old man has outlived so many others, whether by miracle or cosmic joke. He was always the best of them, even when they had to leave people behind. And now, for him to throw everything away, for an infant he barely knows?
“I…” She chokes on her words, a sob escaping her throat. “I can’t… thank you enough. You have no idea how much this—”
“I do,” he interrupts gently. His smile is faint but sincere. “Now go. Let me have my peace. Let an old man rest.”
Her daughter’s screams hit her before she’s fully entered their shelter—a repurposed storage unit that smells of rust and despair. The sound scrapes against her nerves, a primal reminder of their shared agony.
“Shh, honey, shh,” she soothes, though her hands shake as she unwraps the package. “Mama has food now.” She breaks off a piece, and—
The scent hits her like a physical force. Her stomach contracts, violently. Saliva floods her mouth so fast it’s painful. She wavers, the scrap hovering halfway between herself and her crying child.
It’s such a small amount, really. Barely enough for a day—perhaps two if they stretched it to the breaking point. And what then? An eleven-month-old can’t help forage, can’t help defend, can’t help build. Can’t help shoulder the burden of survival. It’s not enough food for both of them, and her stomach knows it, lashing out in rage.
Another piercing wail, but Lena barely registers it. She startles as she realizes that a piece of the food is already in her mouth, dissolving against her tongue in a burst of flavor that makes her dizzy with relief. She swallows convulsively, hardly chewing, and oh—oh—
She’s led them all this far, hasn’t she? Through the cities turned to graveyards, through the nights when the darkness itself seemed to hunger almost as bad as them. It isn’t her fault that only she’s left now. She deserves this moment, this small mercy.
Her daughter’s cry rises again, and something ugly and bitter twists in Lena’s chest. She’s never asked for this responsibility; never wanted to be a new mother during the apocalypse in a world where love and hunger tasted the same. The thoughts come faster now. The odds are already against them, aren’t they? In this world of endless winter, what chance does a baby really have?
“God,” she whimpers after a burst of pain, realizing she’s bitten into her own finger in her frenzy to catch every crumb. The taste of copper mixes with the lingering sweetness of food, and she licks her hand clean with desperate, animal movements. Who knows when she’ll taste anything again?
—No. That’s not true. She knows exactly when. Soon, she tells herself, wiping her mouth clean with tremoring hands. She’ll find more food tomorrow, now that she has strength. The old man would understand—he’d want her strong enough to provide for them. He gave it to her for her baby, didn’t he? This is what he would’ve wanted: her, able to provide for them both. Her fingers trace the empty wrapper, searching for any remaining crumbs.
Her daughter’s cries have weakened to whimpers—small, thin, unraveling before they can become wails. Lena reaches out to stroke her brittle hair, stomach clenching as she remembers her anger a moment ago. Didn’t she used to feel such pride when looking at her daughter’s face? How much it looked like her; like another she still can’t bring to mind without breaking down, energy she no longer has to spare.
Unbidden, she remembers how the old man’s hands had trembled when he’d pressed the food into her palms. Such a good man. She’s good, too—better than the others who’d abandoned their children outright. She’s still here, isn’t she? Still trying. She’d never abandon her baby, no matter how—no matter what, she means. No matter what.
She’s still here. She’s better than that.
“Mama will hunt tomorrow,” she whispers, though her daughter’s eyes don’t focus on her. “We’ll eat then, my love. I promise.”
She swallows the spark of emotion those words elicit just as easily as the food from before. She feels something resembling fullness for the first time in weeks. Soon, the hunger will return—it always, always does—but for now, she can rest. Plan. Survive.
She curls around her baby’s too-small body, humming a lullaby her own mother once sang. The tune keeps skipping like a broken record, but she doesn’t notice. She’s already dreaming of tomorrow’s hunt, of the food she’ll surely find. For them both.
In the corner, the empty wrapping rustles like dying leaves in the wind. She’ll have to hide it, she thinks distantly. Wouldn’t want anyone to know she’s had food. Not that there’s anyone left, but surely there are other survivors. Somewhere. Maybe somewhere close.
Or maybe there’s just… enough.
There’s always tomorrow.
