Lauren: Oatmeal

Sleep is just about impossible that night.

Every time I fall asleep, I dream of Dana dying in terrible ways.

Giving up on any semblance of rest, I head down the empty hallway, using a flashlight to find my way.

The familiar school smell—a mix of industrial cleaner and marker—now carries the heavy scent of unwashed bodies and fear. A metallic clang from the kitchen makes me jump. My heart races until I hear Maria's soft humming.

"You're up early," I say, pushing through the double doors.

"Couldn't sleep either?" Maria wipes her hands on her apron. "Help me stack some bowls for the morning rush, will you?"

I nod, heading for the dishes. In front of her, an industrial-sized pot of oatmeal bubbles thick and bland. No brown sugar, no cinnamon—just plain oats and water.

"Don't have enough eggs. This is what it's going to be for a while." Maria stirs the pot with practiced movements.

"How many people are we feeding now?"