I removed the sheets, opened the window, which surprisingly was working, (no rust or broken glass here) and the warm air cleared the stench of whoever slept in my bed.

Then I went back to my stew, still not done. Some sprinkles of oregano and some stirring didn’t help the time pass. I pulled myself away from the pot and sat in the single unbroken chair in the kitchen, waiting.

As I waited, my mind traveled back to the town. What the heck is happening? Why is this town in such a bad condition?

I couldn’t deduce a logical answer. The only way to find out what happened was to talk to the new residents, the same ones that I couldn’t trust. Great…

Screw that, I was done waiting for my stew to cook. I popped open the microwave door and saw the light inside turn on. Running water, working stove, and even a working microwave. This was my new heaven.

I reclaimed a bowl, fished the roots out with a soup spoon, and microwaved the suckers for three minutes. The veggies plopped back into the stew to cool. I ate them directly from the pot, slurping and crunching the larger pieces.

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The quantity was five times the prison’s provisions, and it tasted so much better. This was food, not the processed muck they served.

I ate and ate as much as I could stuff in my stomach and only managed to empty an equivalent of half a bowl of soup. An old habit and a smaller stomach. Back in prison, I tried to sneak any bit of food to my bed, and I would later try to give those bits to my grandma.

She usually would refuse if I didn’t eat with her, so I got accustomed to eating less when served, and eating the rest slowly with grandma while trying to push her to eat more.

I stared at the pot of food, sad that there was no way of sharing this with grandma.

The moldy fridge reeked. The rotting leftover chicken practically jumped into the trash, plate and all. The pot sat in the front, placed on a coaster and fully covered with its matching lid. No way was I getting mold in my soup.

I brushed my teeth with my old toothbrush and some salt (they took my toothpaste) and even then, my teeth were grateful for it. In Allegan, the prisoners would’ve fought me to my death for the bristled novelty, purple skin or not.