Page 20 of Glamour and Grit

I remember what she’s going through, and don't take offense at her sudden flash of anger.

“I do have a plan. I need to connect with some people. But I can get you a snack first.”

The food truck smells a little musty until I turn on the hoods. I gather up some potato chips, jarred salsa, and a bottled soda.

“Here. Best I can do for now.”

“This is great, thank you.”

She uses her teeth to tear into the chip bag. Apparently, working on zombie make up for so long has given her zombie-like traits. Selene marches to the beat of her own drummer, and I envy her for how effortless she makes it all look.

I whip up some venison sausage burritos, and quickly discover that while the stove and the hoods work fine, the air conditioner is onthe fritz. I peel off my sweat soaked shirt, and carry out the plated food over to the house.

I find Selene in the living room section, half asleep on the couch. The smell of food rouses her, and she smiles sleepily at me.

“My dream came true, a shirtless guy delivering me tacos.”

“Burritos, actually. The AC broke in the food truck.”

“I appreciate your sacrifice.”

I take my first bite, and realize that while the food is palatable, it’s also obviously spent a lot of time in a freezer.

“Sorry. It’s a little freezer burnt.”

“It’s fine. I’m too hungry to be picky.”

“I understand that all too well. Some of the MREs I've had fail to qualify as fit for human consumption.”

“Some of the what, now? Memories?”

“It’s an acronym. Meals Ready to Eat, or MRE. The joke is they might be ready to eat but you don’t want to.”

“So it’s like cold cuts, summer sausage, that sort of thing?”

“Oh no,” I laugh. “They come in all kinds of different varieties, none of them good. They come with a little pouch you shake up that produces enough heat to warm the so-called food. About the only things worth eating were the brownies. Guys used to play cards and bet them like poker chips.”

She laughs, her eyes shining.

“I guess simple comforts mean a lot in those circumstances, huh?”

“Yeah. And speaking of simple comforts…”

I break out a bottle of mid-tier whiskey for our meal. At her request, I dilute hers with half a can of coke. About halfway through our makeshift meal, she starts getting droopy eyelids.

“Here. Let me show you where you’ll be sleeping.”

“I don’t care if it’s a cot or even a blanket on the floor at this point.”

I realize, somewhat sheepishly, that I haven’t even taken the plastic wrap off the mattress and box springs, let alone set them up and put sheets on them. She sits down on a cardboard box and watches while I hastily assemble the sleeping area.

“It’s really quiet out here. I can’t even hear any traffic at all.”

“I hadn’t noticed. Haven’t been able to spend much time here,” I struggle to stretch the fitted sheet over the final corner, then step back and smooth out a crease. “But I hope that means you can get some decent sleep.”

She staggers over to the bed and flops down in it.

“Tell me we’re going to find Justin?”

---