The Arithmetic of Hunger
You lay every can, pouch, and ration bar across the mess table in tidy rows, like soldiers awaiting inspection. The fluorescents hum. You count twice. Then a third time, because the answer keeps coming back wrong.
Ninety days of food. One hundred and eighty days of dark. Half rations means hallucinations by month four, organ failure by month five. You need more — from somewhere, from someone.