The First Runner

To Whom It May Concern: Send Cheese

The kitchen creaked softly beneath my feet as I stepped inside, morning light slanting through the cracked windows and casting long, dusty rays across the floorboards. Bark's claws clicked gently behind me as he followed, tail wagging once before settling near the door. The quiet was familiar now, almost heavy. I didn't know if I liked it yet.

I crossed the room to the corner post by the stove—my post. The wood there was worn, already scarred from decades of use, but I'd made my own mark in the past few days. Literally.

I picked up the sharp stone I kept on the counter and carved another line into the post. Seven.

Seven days.

A whole week.

I stared at the uneven, scratchy tallies, chewing the inside of my cheek. Seven days since I'd woken up here. Seven days of walking in circles around the homestead. Seven days of exploring the maze, as far as I dared. Seven days of shouting into the sky and hearing nothing back. Seven days with no one but Bark and my own damn thoughts.

I let out a breath and dropped the rock back on the counter with a clack. "Happy one-week anniversary, Jess," I muttered to myself, rolling my eyes.

I turned to the stove—an ancient thing, but it worked. Most of the stuff in the kitchen did, somehow. The pantry wasn't bottomless, but it hadn't failed me yet. I'd rationed things out. Tinned beans, hard bread, dried fruit. Things I could cook and things I could burn trying.

I grabbed a pan from the hook and set it down, nudging Bark away from the cupboard with my foot as I pulled out a can of something that vaguely resembled hash. He sniffed at it skeptically.

"Hey, you're not the one eating it," I said, elbowing him gently as I opened the can with the twisty tool I'd finally figured out two days ago. "You just mooch."

I poured it into the pan and stirred it with a spoon that had definitely seen better days. The sizzle of it against the heat was comforting—normal, even. Something human in a place that felt like a bad dream.

I leaned against the counter while it cooked, arms crossed. The kitchen smelled like salt and oil and rust. It didn't matter how many windows I opened. The scent lingered like a ghost.

Bark circled the room and plopped down with a groan, resting his head on his paws, eyes tracking me like he was waiting for me to lose it again.

I probably would.

But not yet. Right now, there was breakfast.

And seven tallies carved into an old wooden post.

I plated the hash and grabbed a fork, poking at it absentmindedly as I stared through the open kitchen window. The garden plot just beyond the homestead was finally showing some green. Actual, honest green. The beans were coming in. The carrots had sprouted. The tomatoes were still refusing to cooperate, but I'd take the win.

Two pigs. Chickens—six, maybe seven now that I hadn't miscounted the twitchy little gray one. A garden with promise. Not paradise, but not nothing. And if I rationed right, I could stretch the tins and dried food until the garden took over. I wasn't exactly thriving, but I wasn't dying either. And I was getting smarter. I'd started keeping a notebook, tracking patterns—sunlight, the Maze, Bark's behavior. It made things feel less... huge. More solvable.

I took a bite of the hash. It was disgusting. I ate it anyway.

Then—BLAARP. BLAARP. BLAARP.

I froze, the fork halfway to my mouth.

Not the same sound as before. This was different. Sharper. Shorter. Purposeful. Three blares, evenly spaced, like a warning. Or a signal.