Morgan kept working. According to Sami's message, the Mauves would launch another attack tomorrow, and the militia would need all of their strength. He packed meat sandwiches, each with just a little sprinkle of pepper and a thin spread of butter. Morgan had always stayed away from eating meat-- animal life was sacred, after all-- but the militia would never be satisfied with a vegetarian diet. So he tried not to think of what had gone into making these cuts as he finished the last sandwich and turned to the pudding.
On his right, his sink-sized pan held a few gallons of freshly made cinnamon apple pudding, and on his left, a hundred tiny plastic cups waited, their lids expectantly open. With a soup ladle, Morgan scooped one heaping spoonful into each container and packed it in with a sandwich, a treat for the fighters. Behind him, an energy juice mixture sat in a clear plastic vat, waiting for more sugar to make it palatable. But Morgan had run out of white sugar days ago, and the next shipment of the stuff had been vaporized in the plane bombing. Bonde Wakulima would have to go without sugar until the next shipment arrived, whenever that happened.
When at last, he had all the meals packed, he wiped his forehead. Zanele had promised to come along with him while he delivered the meals, but so far there was no sign of her. Morgan picked at his fingernails. All day, he had imagined running his rounds with her, but now his excitement began to crumble. On his projector, he checked his latest message from Zanele promising she would come. Morgan wanted to write her and ask what kept her, but at the same time, he did not want to be a bother.
He heard footsteps and a knock outside. Instantly, Morgan was at the door. He threw it open, heart throbbing.
Zanele was there, looking good in smooth khaki pants and a forest-green dress shirt that hugged her chest nicely. Just seeing her, Morgan let out a delighted gasp. "Zanele! I'm so glad you made it! Come on in, I'll get the wagon out."
Zanele colored her face with a smile. "You sound like we're on a date."
Morgan started. "Well, we are, aren't we?"
"I suppose." She took the wagon and helped Morgan maneuver it out the door. "When I imagine a date, I think of sitting down, relaxing... eating."
"That reminds me..." ducking back into the house, he resurfaced with a carefully decorated cookie. "I saved one, just for you."
Zanele took it with a grateful smile.
"I don't think it's strange," Morgan went on. "These days, we have to do everything while we're working. The last time I sat down for a date was..." He remembered Otta. "... it was a while ago. Anyway, I think this is relaxing." With two armfuls of lunches, he stepped out into the street, taking an exaggerated breath of outside air. "This is wonderful. It's not safe for me to go outside, you know. Not without someone with me."
"Still? I hear crime is way down. And I don't see people skulking around so much anymore. I think the Mauves have scared everyone into getting along."
"It's safer?" Morgan felt lighter. "That's great!" His tone turned wistful. "Maybe I'll risk it, then. Maybe I'll go out on my own."
"How often do you get out now?"
"Only when you can come over."
"Are you serious?"
"Of course. Who else has the time to come with me?"
"I guess that makes sense. It's hard, these days. It's hard on all of us. Gods, we're even the lucky ones."
"What?" Something snapped in Morgan's mind, and he dropped his arms, letting the food tumble into the wagon. With sudden anger, he threw his arms out and said, "How are we lucky? Look at me! Do I look lucky to you?"
