Reaping by K. Makansi Page B

of being self-centered, of thinking only about what I’d lost. I like to think I’m beyond that now.
    “Not much.”
    I pull away from him and stand up, pulling on my clothes.
    “I’m going to get some food.”
    “Finally,” Soren says, smiling again. “I was worried you’d starve in here.”
    I look down at him. “You coming?”
    “Your bed is so warm.” He pulls the blanket up to his face. “And it smells like you. Mind if I stay here for a bit? Maybe I can get a nap in.”
    I smile at him, reach down and touch his cheek, then bend down as if to kiss him. Instead I whisper in his ear. “Don’t slobber on my pillow.”
    He whips the pillow off the bed and whacks me on the head. “So romantic,” he laughs. Whatever else we have, we’ll always have the teasing. It used to be mean-spirited, or at least I thought it was, before the raid, before the capture. Now it’s a connection to our shared experiences I hope we never lose. I leave him to the bunk and shield my eyes as I step out into the brighter light of the halls.
    It’s strangely comforting to be back underground, in tunnels lit by biolights rather than sunlight. It feels like home. I wind my way through the halls, taking a few wrong turns and at one point bumping into a tall, slightly oversized man who looks as if he probably has his own stash of Hodge’s special cookie butter. He redirects me cheerfully toward the mess hall. For all that there are not many people here, the tunnels are sprawling.
    “Remy!” A voice calls as I almost walk past the open door. I turn into the room, the small round wood tables and wicker chairs of the mess hall. Bear’s waving at me, grinning, as he stuffs a thick slice of bread slathered with jam into his face.
    “Hungry?” I ask.
    “Thif food if ’ ood .”
    “I guess,” I say with a smile. It occurs to me that Bear’s never really had  real  food. All his life, he'd been fed OAC MealPaks, and then he lived on foraged food and who-knows-what else for a month or so in the Wilds with Sam. When we finally made it back to Thermopylae, we barely had time to say hello before we were driven out again. And then we subsisted on stores of millet, amaranth, and barley, dried vegetables, and smoked jerky at the rendezvous. We were all pining after good food, then. In a way, Bear was lucky—he had no idea what he was missing.
    “What kind of jam is that?”
    “Gooseberry,” he says.
    I stick my tongue out.
    “What even is that?”
    “Some kind of wild berry they got around here. Adrienne says they got loads of it. Jars and jars and jars. Gave me a whole one for myself.”
    The happiness etched into his face tells me this is probably the first time he’s ever been given anything to keep for himself.
    I grab a slice off the wooden breadboard in front of us and spread on a thick layer of jam. I glance over to the food preparation area, where I realize there’s a surprising amount of clatter. Two unfamiliar men are busily clanking pots and pans, chopping vegetables, and whisking various liquids in giant bowls. The sweet, smoky scent of roasting meat is wafting around the room, but I can’t see where the smell is coming from.
    “What are they doing?” I ask Bear quietly. He swallows an enormous chunk of bread before responding.
    “Adrienne gave the order this  matin  to prep a good meal for if the others show. From Team Blue.”  Like my father , I think. “Got some kind of pig in the oven, even. No one’s sure they’re coming or not, but if they do….”
    A smile creeps onto my face. They’re preparing for a celebration that may not even happen. Everyone—not just me—is hopeful, eager to see the others return, safe and sound. It’s reassuring, as always, to remember that I’m not the only one with the heavy weight of uncertainty on my shoulders. Others share my pain, my anxiety, my loss.
    I take a seat beside him. “Any word from … the rest of our team?” Vale’s sea-green eyes flash before me.