​

 

 

​

 

                                                                                     “Don’t, Mor. It could be a trap.”

​

 

               “But it’s food!”

​

 

                                                                                      “It could be poisoned.”

​

 

                “But, food!!!”

​

                                                                                       “Morrow, I said no.”

​

 

                 “But, food?”

​

 

                                                                                        “But who put it here?”

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                  “F O O D.”

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                                                                                         “And Why? Think.”

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                        “It does look better than mushrooms though.”

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“There she goes.”

 

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                                                                                         “No, Morrow, don’t!”

​

⸎

​

I watch Peter attempt to tear her away from the pyramid of cans as she bites him; watch him wagging his arm, wincing away the sight of blood. She grabs a can and smashes it down on the concrete. The others watch her a moment, licking their lips then feasting on the splatter of cranberries, until they decide to join her, dipping their hands in and sopping up the canned treat. Soon they’re all three smashing cans together.               Only Peter is resisting the impulse. “Fine!” His arm continues to drip as he’s daubing it on his sleeve. “But if you all die I get to say I told you so.” Then he’s looking up and around, painfully aware whoever placed the pile there is likely watching them now at this very moment.

            I press my body flat behind a crumpled Port-a-Potty.

             “Just don’t eat it all!” he amends wisely, giving in. “Save some. We have to live beyond just today, you know.”