4338.208 · July 27, 2018 AD
Spice and Shrapnel
Twenty-four hours ago, Karen was on a bus. Now she's sitting on a rough-hewn log in a strange world, watching steam rise from a container of chicken tikka like it's the most sacred thing she's ever held. The food is warm. The company is complicated. And before the meal is over, someone will throw chicken across the fire, someone will propose building a road with one shovel and blind optimism, and Karen will have to decide which battles are worth fighting—and which ones she can simply eat her way through.
There's something almost offensive about how good the food smells.
Karen settles beside Chris on a log that bites into her palms and watches Luke move through the group, handing out containers like offerings. Chicken tikka. Butter chicken. Steam and spice and the ache of something familiar in a place that refuses to make sense. It's been barely a day since the bus, since Jane, since everything she thought she knew dissolved into red dust and impossible sky. And now here she is—loss still lodged in her chest—being handed dinner.
The fire crackles. The dogs circle. Conversation drifts from easy laughter to sudden friction. Paul wants order, structure, accountability. Jamie wants to be left alone. And somewhere between a flying piece of chicken and a proposal to build a road through the dust, the fragile shape of community begins to show its cracks.
Karen watches it all unfold—the alliances, the irritations, the absurd optimism of people who don't yet know how little they have. She doesn't volunteer. She doesn't argue. She just dips her naan into the sauce and lets the warmth settle somewhere deep.
Some battles aren't worth the breath. This one tastes better with coriander.
