Exiting his housing unit, Ross turned left and headed towards the nearest cafe. He knew the cook there and they often talked about the old times, two or three centuries ago, before things had gotten so orderly. Today of all days he did not want to be alone with his regrets. As far as he could see in any direction, five stories of identical housing units lined the street. Most of the apartment windows were boarded up with plywood, and almost all the street level shops were closed. By noon, the surplus population would gather to mope through immaculate streets; no children, pets, or plants permitted in the allotted housing. At this time of day few people wandered about and all of them avoided eye contact, as if they had a secret and were not willing to share it with anyone. On the horizon, towards District 5, Ross could see the faint glow of the geodetic dome that housed the elites. And their ubiquitous slogan of property, pleasure, and life eternal reached into and polluted every corner of life. Within the gated community, surrounded by an impenetrable wall, they worked all types of mischief to reconfigure the world into their desired image.

Ross stumbled through the door of food dispensary twelve for sector number 6, barged through the dining room with its selection of stained tablecloths, collapsed on a stool by the long greasy counter, and watched an obese fly drown in the ketchup bottle inches from his nose.

“You want the regular? Something rubbery to fry. Something chewy to boil. Something you must heat to get crisp. And hot brown water that is not something at all,” said the old cook in his threadbare apron.

“What I want is my wife and son back among the living,” said Ross.

“That time of year again, is it?” asked the cook.

Ross did not answer, observing the expiring insect, trapped in the hexagon glass bottle, drown in an exuberance of supply.

 “I got a special treat for you today,” said the cook.

“Right,” said Ross.

The proprietor placed a small red apple on the counter and asked, “Can you tell if it is real?”

“Cut it in half and see if it has seeds,” said Ross, it was a solvable problem.

The cook placed the fruit on the chopping block and with his chef’s knife split it down the center. He placed one half in front of Ross and kept the other for himself. Within the core was a cluster of shiny black seeds with fat white roots squirming outwards trying to find fertile ground and new life.

“I will take the regular, as there is no other choice,” said Ross.

“The regular is not so bad once you get used to it,” said the cook.

In no mood for conversation, but glad for the presence of his friend, Ross munched his breakfast in silence.

“You want to talk it out,” asked the cook.

“Never!” exclaimed Ross.

“You made me talk about my last deployment,” said the cook.

“I never talk about it to anyone,” said Ross.

“I am someone,” said the cook.

“Ok, I will tell you the short version,” said Ross.

“Listening,” said the cook.

“My wife decided to go because it was part-time and in the basement, not up in the towers. We needed the money for our next resurrection. That evening she did not come home, and I got a text message saying she had been selected. My son tried to climb the barrier and extract her. If you go to the south gate shreds of his jackets still ornament the razor wire. When I got off work I hurried to the entrance. A juggernaut had crashed just outside the gate. She was laying on the ground all painted up, dressed like a whore, and bleeding out. I had no med kit. The last thing she said was: do I know you?” spat out Ross.

“You want to kill them all?” asked the cook.

“I need to forgive them first or it will keep going round and round," said Ross.