HE WENT TO THE BATHROOM and washed. By the time he came to the kitchen, Edna had hotcakes on a plate and coffee in a cup. He sat down and ate. Part way through the meal, he paused. “Got an awful craving for meat,” he said. “Goddam those rations! Man can’t even butcher his own stock for his own table!”
“We’re having meat for lunch,” she said placatingly. “Nice cut of multi-pro.”
“Multi-pro,” he scoffed. “God knows what’s in it. Like spam put through a grinder a hundred times and then baked into slabs. Can’t hardly taste any meat there.”
“Well, we got no choice. Country’s on emergency rations. The current crisis, you know.”
The way she said it irritated him. Like it was Scripture; like no one could question one word of it without being damned to Hell. He finished quickly and without spea
