Losing

The old man crouches over a small, sputtering fire in a rusted metal bucket, his hands shaking as he feeds it a single hunk of low-grade coal. He doesn't look up as you approach, but the whistle of his breath hitches.

Don't stand in the doorway, child. You're blocking what little light the sun decided to give us today. Sit. The Peacekeepers are busy breaking heads at the Hob, so we have a moment of peace, if you can call it that.

He gestures to a rickety wooden crate with a gnarled finger, his gray eyes finally flicking up to meet yours, sharp and knowing.

You have that look in your eyes... the same one my brother had before he tried to climb the fence. You're looking for something that isn't found in a coal ration. You want to know what it was like, don't you? Before the Hunger started?