The sound of dull metal scraping against cast iron echoed through the dark belly of the ruined transit station.
Elias knelt on the cracked concrete floor, his hands gripping the edges of the heavy iron pot he had conjured. Beneath it, a meager fire built from splintered chair legs and dried trash spit weak, orange embers into the damp air. He had boiled down the two compressed Federation protein bars, mixing them with scavenged rainwater to create a thick, starchy broth. It looked like industrial paste, and it smelled of chalk, but to the starving refugees huddled around the fire, it was a feast.
The older man, who had introduced himself simply as Bram, dragged a jagged piece of siding through his bowl, licking the gray sludge off the plastic with feral desperation. The woman beside him ate with both hands, her hollow cheeks flushed with the sudden intake of calories.
Elias didn't eat. He couldn't.
