“Do you remember real food?â€? My brother asked me as he threw his piece of old jerky in the flames before us.

We sat in front of a metal can, burning whatever we could. Old books, mostly. Maybe papers that hadn’t gotten wet in the floods, though that was rare. Really, it was whatever we could find if we dared to go outside to the frozen wastelands that had once been a thriving city.

“Yeah,â€? I sighed, “I do.â€?

But it had been a long time since I’d had “realâ€? food. I took a bite of jerky that had expired ages ago, but worth the risk. I closed my eyes as my throat convulsed to get it down.

“I kind of don’t. Why?â€?

I directed my attention beyond our makeshift hut, into the rest of the parking garage now called home. People were huddled together in masses waiting for either salvation or death, but neither ever came.

My brother’s hand made its way into mine. I gave it a gentle, tender squeeze, smiled sadly, and gave him a reason.

“I guess that sort of thing just happens at the end of the world.â€?