Chapter 6 - The supplies. The math.

By day nine, Maya stops calling it a feeling.

Feelings are soft. Debatable. Open to interpretation.

This is math.

She spreads everything out on the floor. Not dramatically. Not in a panic. Just… systematically. Like laying out tools before a job you already understand but would prefer not to.

Food first.

Six tins become five when she counts them properly, because one of them is actually empty and placed back on the shelf like optimism in a suit.

Protein bars: four and a half.

Crackers: gone.

Peanut butter: a scraped-out husk of former potential.

Maya nods.

She writes it down in her head. Then she moves to water. Still holding. Good.

Fuel next.

Two canisters should be two canisters. One is full. The other is lighter than it has any right to be.

Maya lifts it. Shakes it gently. Listens.

Half.

Not used. Not by her. She knows what she’s used. She tracks that instinctively now, like breathing with numbers attached.

Half missing.

She sets it down carefully.

Medicine.

The plastic box clicks open with the same small, cheerful sound it always makes, like it’s delighted to participate.

Bandages: reduced.

Painkillers: reduced.

Antiseptic: lower than it should be by exactly the amount someone would take if they thought, this won’t be noticed if I’m careful.

Maya closes the box. Sits back on her heels.

There’s a version of this where she makes a mistake.

Where she forgot something. Miscounted. Dropped a can. Used more than she remembered because the days blur and hunger edits memory.

She runs it again.

Food.

Fuel.

Medicine.

Same answer.

The numbers don’t argue. That’s what makes them useful.

Emotional truth: this hurts. Not sharp. Not loud. Just a steady, quiet pressure behind her ribs, like something pressing outward, testing the structure.

Deflection: excellent. Being robbed in the apocalypse. Really elevating the experience.

Sharper truth: this isn’t theft. Not exactly. It’s redistribution. From the system to the user. From us to him.

Maya exhales slowly. She stands. Walks the perimeter. Checks the doors, the barricades, the roof access. Not because she thinks something has changed. Because movement helps her think and standing still makes the truth louder.

Dex has been leaving.

Dex has been coming back with less than he should.

Dex smells like sugar and something else. Smoke sometimes, or something chemical she can’t quite place.

Dex has better excuses.

Dex eats when she’s not looking.

Dex is taking from their shared resources and supplementing from somewhere else.

Somewhere he is not taking her.

The logic assembles itself piece by piece, neat and unkind.

There is another location. There are other people, or at least other supplies. He is choosing not to include her.

Maya stops walking.

There it is.

She doesn’t say it out loud. Naming something makes it harder to pretend it’s still hypothetical.

She turns back to the desk. The crate. Opens it again, because apparently she enjoys emotional self-harm with a side of confirmation.

Five tins. Four and a half bars.

She reaches underneath, adjusting the position slightly… and her fingers hit paper.

Maya pauses.

Slowly, she pulls it out.

It’s small. Crumpled. Grease-stained. A receipt. Not from here. Not from anything they’ve seen since the world ended.

The logo is still visible at the top: a stylised burger, smiling like it has no idea what happened to the rest of civilisation.

RILEY’S GRILL & MART

Maya stares at it. There is an address printed underneath. Three streets over.

She knows that area.

They passed it on day two. Closed. Shuttered. She marked it in her head as low priority, high exposure and moved on.

The receipt is dated two days ago.

Items:

— Bottled water x3

— Energy bars x4

— Candy (assorted)

Total paid. A love heart drawn in blue ink next to the word ‘paid’. Two kiss-crosses underneath it with a smiley face and the name ‘Cara’.

Paid.

Love heart.

Kisses.

Cara.

Maya’s thumb rubs over the ink. It smudges slightly. Real. Concrete. Not a feeling. Not a suspicion. Not a vague sense that something is off.

A place.

A transaction.

A choice.

Dex stood somewhere that still functions—barely, illegally, temporarily—and he bought food.

He did not bring most of it back. He did not tell her. He let her ration. He let her count. He let her believe they were running out.

Maya folds the receipt once. Neatly. Then again.

Her hands are very steady. That’s how she knows she’s upset.

When she’s scared, she shakes. When she’s angry, she moves. When she’s this… she becomes precise.

She slides the receipt into her pocket. Not hiding it. Not yet. Just… placing it somewhere it can exist without being looked at constantly. Because if she looks at it too long, she might have to feel something about it, and feelings are inefficient.

Facts are better.

Fact: Dex has access to another supply.

Fact: He is not sharing it fully.

Fact: He is lying.

Maya leans against the desk. Closes her eyes for a second. Opens them again.

There’s work to do. There is always work to do. She adjusts the food crate. Rebalances the visible quantities.

Not to hide it from herself. To see what he does next.

It feels like setting a trap. It feels like she is the trap.

The knock comes just before evening.

Two taps. Then one. Their pattern.

Maya walks to the door. Opens it. Dex steps inside, slightly out of breath, carrying a bag. He smiles when he sees her. Warm. Familiar. The same smile he’s always had, the one that says we’re okay, right?

Maya looks at him.

Really looks.

His jacket.

His hands.

His mouth.

There’s a faint smear of something at the corner of his sleeve. Grease. Dark. Fresh.

“Hey,” he says. “You wouldn’t believe how quiet it is out there today.”

Maya nods.

Of course it is.

He holds up the bag. “Got lucky again.”

Lucky.

She watches his face as he says it.

No flicker. No hesitation. He believes this version of himself. Or at least, he’s committed to it.

Maya wonders, briefly, if that makes it easier.

For him.

She steps aside to let him in. Closes the door. Slides the bolt.

“Good,” she says.

The word lands perfectly. Neutral. Acceptable. Nothing to question.

Dex relaxes.

He moves past her, already talking about routes and risks and things he definitely encountered and definitely handled.

Maya listens.

Of course she does.

She watches him move through their space like it still belongs to both of them in the same way. She watches him set the bag down, casual, unbothered. She watches him exist inside a version of reality that no longer includes what she now knows.

The distance between them shifts.

Not gradually.

All at once.

Like the ground splitting open without warning. A canyon. Wide. Clean. Impossible.

Dex doesn’t see it. He’s standing on his side, smiling, talking, intact.

Maya stands on hers. Quiet. Balanced. Holding the receipt in her pocket like a small, sharp truth.

She says nothing.