“I’m looking for booze, food and cleaning supplies. You’re just looking for food and cleaning supplies until you can show me valid ID. My bar respects the law.” Dee does not, in fact, give a shit about serving minors, but she does give a shit about monopolizing any alcohol they find. The law just gives her the flimsy excuse of pretending it’s because she’s the responsible adult.

By the light of their makeshift torches, the contents of the store room are revealed: boxes of peanuts. Jars of pickles. Bags of dessicated lemons and limes. Canisters of hand wipes and spray bottles of cleaning solution. Rat traps. Toilet paper rolls. And alcohol.

“Oh, mama,” Dee whispers, grabbing a bottle by the neck. She’ll have to ration this out. She’ll have to make sure she’s the only one who ever has the key. She’ll have to hide it in her underwear or her mouth or her ass when she sleeps. She’s found her purpose in this weird scary world and it’s keeping everyone else out of this room.

Maybe she should kill the kid, club him with the torch so he doesn’t tell anyone. She only doesn’t take that option because she doesn’t know how long it would take him to turn into a tiger and eat her face. She takes a drink, still looking at him like she’s measuring up how fast he can run.

“You’re right. I am lucky.”