Grandma said: “If you can make broth, you’ll never go hungry.”
That’s the kind of thing you say, when you don’t have to live on broth.
When the sun went out, the plants died, and other things started to grow in their place. Slender, wiry stems. Black, oily leaves.
They’re too chewy to eat, so I boil them into soup. Tastes foul. Some days, I prefer hunger.
But that’s over.
Yesterday, a man came to my hut. He wore yellow plastic, and said “Christ, I didn’t realise anyone still lived surfaceside.”
He wasn’t from around here. Now, I’ve got meat.