Page 4 of Beyond The Maples
Speaking of malnutrition. "We back to protein rations already?" I groan as he passes me something resembling a brick on a plate.
"Unfortunately, yes." He cringes, watching me take a bite of the spongy beige block disguised as food. "This is all they doled out this week. I’ll see if I can get some spices from the cafeteria soon, though."?
I shrug and shove another bite down my throat, trying to swallow quickly so it doesn’t disintegrate on my tongue. These things always leave my taste buds feeling fuzzy. What they're made of, I'm not entirely sure. They try to stretch rations out as far as it will go. The Council uses what little they manage to grow to try and sustain as many people as possible. Blending up the few things they have, along with a protein powder generated from the remaining livestock and other modifiedingredients. Creating this lovely concoction formed and distributed to prevent spoiling. Not science at its best, if you ask me.
I let out a disgusted sound as I finish, and Linden makes a gagging gesture in solidarity.
The rations are better than starving, but just barely. Every once in a while, I’ll make enough to grab something "fresh" from the underground market, but it costs a fortune––and it’s usually not very good. More often than not, we both give our shares to Willow. She needs all the extra nutrients she can get.
"I can study from home a bunch this week. I’ll keep an eye on Willow and make sure she’s doing her homework and, ya know, not starting a massive rebellion or something."
He jokes, but honestly, I wouldn’t put it past the little hellion. Willow is obsessed with stories, with history and theories, and linking the two together. She's impossible to argue with sometimes because, like our brother, Willow's brain stacks facts up in what I can only assume is her own personal library, ready for her to access at any time.
A lovely attribute passed down by our father. You pair that with a brain that's not fully developed and doesn't seem to understand the gravity of our situation, and it's exhausting.
"Thank you, that would actually be really helpful because I can't really afford to be missing shifts right now."
I say this, trying not to sound too serious. There's no need to stress him out. He never handles it well.?
"By the way, how is school?" I glance over at him.
He’s sitting at our tiny dinette. It's made from an old pallet I found. All the wood pieces are different shades, sanded down and put together haphazardly. I put high legs on it in hopes that any critters who got in our house wouldn't make it to the tabletop. The table has four different-sized stools; all different colors and all made up of different scraps. It's nothing special, but it works, and it helps create a little sense of normalcy around here. We can all sit together and eat and talk. I often think about repurposing the fourth. It's been years since we've used it, andmaterials are precious. But I can’t ever seem to make myself break it down. That tiny sliver of hope dad will walk through the door never quite leaves, even though logic never fails to hammer into me that he won't. Still, I keep it there.
"Maple, are you even listening?" Linden scowls at me.
"Shit, sorry, say that again. " I shake my head to clear my thoughts.
I watch his face light up as he tells me all about what he's learning right now. Half of which I don't fully understand, but I nod along anyway. Listening to his brilliant brain unravel different ways the body works and how he can manipulate it, healing things the best they can without magic or major interference. Medicine is about the only field that the Council has allowed to keep some forms of modern technology, thank the stars.
"That's incredible. I'm so excited for you," I say sincerely.
"Thanks! I’m almost halfway there, Mae, and then I can finally start helping you with everything and we won't have to worry about Willow's treatments." He says this with just a pinch of sadness clouding his previous excitement. He’s always been a bit of a pessimist. I know where his brain goes when he has that look. He isn’t sure it'll be fast enough. He’s not sure if stretching her treatments out will be okay for that long. But if anyone can beat the odds, it's our little sister. We should all be dead already anyway, if he really wants to get technical about it.?
"Our plan is going to work," I tell him.
He bobs his head without making eye contact.
"Anyway, I should get going. I want to get there early so I can get the good tables."
The place I work at has a weird system. The owner is slimy, and he lets all the servers fight it out for the good tables.
"Ok," he says as he stands up to tidy our little makeshift kitchen, "Love you, be safe."
I watch him, thinking I should give the poor guy more credit. He's a bit like a mother hen himself, with all his cleaning and fretting.
"Don't worry about me. Get that paper done. What was it on again? Regrowing rats' legs?" I tease, laughing.
"My Gods, Maple, that's not even close. Do you even listen?" he says, feigning offense.
"Of course I listen! But I mean, you do drone on and on sometimes. It’s hard."
A rag flies past my head, hitting the wall as I slip on my worn leather boots. I cackle as I hear him yell something, probably repeating what the paper is actually on whilst scolding me.
I take a deep breath of semi clean air while I lift my scarf over my nose, preparing myself to be blasted by dust. I open the rickety door and slip outside, slamming it shut as fast as I can, hoping it doesn't slip into the house. I squint, eyes adjusting to the blinding amber hues as I step out into the barren wasteland we call home.
"Git yer ass movin’," Marta hollers across the kitchen counter, her southern twang thickening with annoyance.
?It’s been a while since work has been this busy, and I’m notcomplaining––but I could do without all the yelling from "Chef". It doesn’t bother me so much, but a few of the younger girls look ready to cry or puke.
