October 9–10, 2023 – 2:41 AM
The cold hurt.
Not the sharp sting of stepping outside on a winter morning.
This cold settled into bones.
It lingered.
It stole strength one shiver at a time.
Lin pulled the oversized winter coat tighter around herself.
The zipper had broken weeks ago.
A length of electrical wire held the front together.
Snow drifted across the abandoned supermarket parking lot.
Every gust carried loose ice crystals that scraped against her cheeks.
The wind whistled through shattered storefront windows.
The automatic doors no longer worked.
Someone had chained them open months ago.
People bartered.
Lin stepped into the building.
The familiar smell hit immediately.
Smoke.
Wet clothing.
Unwashed bodies.
Mold.
Old canned food.
The supermarket shelves had long since been stripped bare.
Tables made from salvaged plywood lined the center aisles.
Each belonged to a different trader.
A handwritten sign hung above one table.
AMMO
Another.
MEDICAL
Another.
TOOLS
Voices stayed low.
Nobody shouted.
Nobody argued loudly.
Everyone understood how dangerous desperation could become.
Lin kept one hand inside her coat pocket.
Wrapped around the handle of a small revolver.
Not because she expected trouble.
Because everyone else carried something too.
The rule wasn't written anywhere.
You arrived armed.
Or you arrived vulnerable.
She walked toward the far corner.
A man sat behind two milk crates filled with canned food.
His beard had turned almost completely white.
Layers of blankets hung over his shoulders.
He looked up.
Recognition flickered across his tired eyes.
"You're back."
Lin nodded once.
"I said I would be."
His eyes drifted to the heavy hiking backpack she carried.
"What've you got?"
Lin carefully set the backpack onto the table.
She unzipped it.
Inside three heavy winter coats.
Two still had department store tags attached.
A pair of insulated snow pants.
Four wool blankets.
The old man's expression changed immediately.
He reached toward one of the coats.
Paused.
Looked at Lin.
She nodded.
"Go ahead."
He ran his fingers across the thick insulated fabric.
His hands trembled.
Not from age.
From the cold.
He quietly called over his shoulder.
"Martha."
An elderly woman emerged from behind a hanging tarp.
She couldn't stop coughing.
The old man held up one of the coats.
Her eyes widened.
She reached out carefully.
As though afraid it might disappear.
She slipped it on.
The coat was far too large.
She didn't care.
She buried both hands inside the pockets.
For the first time since Lin had entered.
The woman smiled.
A small one.
But real.
The old man turned back toward Lin.
"What do you need?"
Lin looked at the milk crates.
Rows of canned vegetables.
Beans.
Tomatoes.
Soup.
A few cans of fruit.
Nothing exciting.
Everything valuable.
"Food."
He nodded.
"How much?"
He looked down at the coats again.
For several long seconds he simply thought.
Before he picked up a piece of chalk.
On the tabletop he wrote a number.
120
Lin looked at it.
One hundred twenty cans.
She slowly nodded.
Fair.
More than fair.
The old man rubbed the number away.
"Actually..."
He looked toward Martha.
Who still stood quietly wearing the coat.
He wrote again.
140
Lin frowned.
"That's too much."
He shook his head.
"No."
His voice cracked.
"Last winter..."
He looked at his wife.
"...she almost froze."
He swallowed.
"I'm not making that mistake again."
Neither of them spoke for several seconds.
Then, Lin nodded once.
"Alright."
The old man stood.
His knees cracked audibly.
Together they began loading cans into her backpack.
Soup.
Beans.
Corn.
Peaches.
Mixed vegetables.
The market continued as though nothing unusual was happening.
A woman traded antibiotics for batteries.
Two men negotiated over a propane regulator.
Someone exchanged homemade candles for dried venison.
Life had become nothing more than calculated exchanges.
The backpack grew heavier.
Thirty cans.
Sixty.
Ninety.
One hundred twenty.
The old man kept going.
Lin watched him.
"That's enough."
He ignored her.
One hundred thirty.
One hundred thirty-five.
One hundred forty.
Only then did he stop.
He zipped the backpack closed himself.
Then slid it across the table.
"Take care of yourself."
Lin lifted the pack onto her shoulders.
The weight nearly pulled her backward.
Food.
Weeks of food.
In exchange for winter clothing she'd found months earlier in an abandoned department store.
She looked once more at Martha.
The old woman had fallen asleep in a folding chair.
Still wearing the oversized coat.
One hand remained tucked deep inside the pocket as if she feared someone might take it away.
Lin adjusted the heavy backpack.
Turned.
And walked toward the chained-open doors as snow blasted across the empty parking lot.
Lin lowered her head and leaned into the wind.
The backpack dug painfully into her shoulders.
One hundred forty cans.
Heavy.
Worth every ounce.
She had almost reached the broken entrance when a familiar voice called after her.
"Miss!"
She turned.
The old man was hurrying after her, one gloved hand clutching something against his chest.
He was breathing hard by the time he reached her.
Without a word, he held out a small cloth bag.
Lin frowned.
"You already paid."
The old man shook his head.
"Open it."
She untied the cord.
Inside were six packets of vegetable seeds.
Tomatoes.
Beans.
Carrots.
Onions.
Lettuce.
Spinach.
The paper packets were worn and yellow with age.
She looked up.
"These are worth too much."
He smiled sadly.
"Not to me."
She waited.
He looked back toward the supermarket.
"I'm seventy-three."
He gave a tired shrug.
"Maybe I'll see another planting season."
"Maybe I won't."
He nodded toward her backpack.
"You look like somebody planning for spring."
Lin stared at the little packets.
Seeds had become more valuable than cash.
More valuable than jewelry.
More valuable than ammunition.
She reached into her coat.
The old man watched silently.
She pulled out a folded stack of bills.
Old U.S. currency.
Nearly two thousand dollars.
The edges were worn from months of being carried.
She held it out.
"Take it."
The old man looked at the money.
Then back at Lin.
He didn't move.
Finally. He laughed.
Not loudly.
Just quietly.
Sadly.
"Miss..."
He gently pushed her hand back.
"I used to own three restaurants."
His eyes drifted toward the faded bills.
"Ten years ago..."
He smiled faintly.
"...I'd have traded a week's work for that much money."
He looked around the ruined parking lot.
Snow blew through abandoned cars.
The gas station across the street had collapsed months ago.
No lights.
No future.
He looked back at Lin.
"Today..."
He reached into her open backpack.
Picked up a single can of tomato soup.
Held it beside the money.
Then quietly placed the soup back inside.
"That can's worth more."
Lin slowly lowered the cash.
She already knew.
She'd carried it anyway.
Partly out of habit.
Partly because throwing it away had felt...wrong.
The old man smiled gently.
"Keep it."
"Maybe someday it'll matter again."
He looked unconvinced by his own words.
A sharp gust of wind swept between them.
The paper money fluttered in Lin's hand.
One bill slipped free.
She instinctively reached for it.
The wind caught it.
The hundred-dollar bill spun into the air.
Higher.
Higher.
Across the parking lot.
Neither of them chased it.
They simply watched it tumble across the snow before disappearing into the darkness.
The old man chuckled.
"There goes dinner..."
He shook his head.
"...ten years ago."
Lin opened her mouth to answer.
A shrill electronic sound cut through the frozen air.
One sharp tone.
Then another.
The supermarket disappeared.
The snow vanished.
The wind stopped.
Lin's eyes snapped open.
Darkness.
Her bedroom.
For a heartbeat, she could still feel the weight of the backpack on her shoulders.
She reached instinctively toward where the revolver should have been beneath her coat.
Her hand met only the quilt.
The alarm on her nightstand chirped again.
October 10, 2023 – 5:30 AM
Delivery day.
She sat upright slowly.
Her breathing steadied.
The dream lingered with unsettling clarity.
The old man's words echoed in her mind.
That can's worth more.
Lin looked toward the desk where, only hours earlier, she'd checked her bank balance.
More than two hundred thousand dollars still sat safely in her account.
Enough to buy almost anything she needed.
She switched off the alarm, swung her legs over the side of the bed, and stood.
Outside, beyond the bedroom window, the first faint hint of dawn was beginning to brighten the eastern horizon.
The busiest day since her return had begun.