"Okay, good," I say, pushing to my feet, standing in my boxers in a living room I only half think of as mine.

"Got eggs and milk still oughta be good. Came in on those creepy fuckin' supply trucks, few weeks back," I mutter. Creepy, but that hasn't stopped me from eating 'em. For all I know, there's drugs in all of it, making us hallucinate or making us docile or who the fuck knows what.

But right now, pancakes seem more important.