An expectant mother with an ill-fitting brown dress and unmarked left hand arranges her groceries on the metal counter. The attendant—an older woman with permanent frown lines—inspects each item thoroughly before placing them back into the woven basket, halting when she plucks a banana by the stem.
“Is something wrong?” the expectant mother asks, rubbing a hand along the top of her swollen stomach.
The attendant eyes her. “Which shelf did you take this from?”
“The middle one.”
The older woman shakes her head. “There’s only a few brown spots, see? This is a Tier One banana. You gotta look for the ones with more browning.”
Since mothers who’ve procreated out of wedlock have only fulfilled half of their expected contributions, they’re given Tier Two handouts. The midgrade groceries are more reliably unexpired than the bottom-shelf stock, but never quite as fresh as what the Tier Ones get.
“I swear I grabbed it from the second shelf.”
“Then someone must’ve shelved it incorrectly. Sorry, ma’am, but I can’t let you take this.”
The man between me and the expectant mother leans to grab the banana from the attendant’s hands, taking it for himself. As an owner of testicles, he’s allowed to do so. All men are automatically Tier One, thanks to their status as Caligo’s highest contributors. Their wives get to share in the benefits of that status, relishing the best our great city has to offer.
The expectant mother hangs her head and shuffles out of the food bank with the rest of her approved groceries.
My knuckles whiten as they clench around the handle of my basket.
“Happy Selection Day,” the banana thief says brightly to the attendant.
The older woman nods politely. “Is there something I can help you with?”
“Yeah, all the tomatoes are bruised.” He plucks one from his basket. “See these marks? Belongs with that bottom-shelf junk.”
There are few reasons a Tier One would wait in line, given bypassing the attendant’s stand is one of their many perks. Reporting a complaint is at the top of the list.
The attendant’s mouth thins. “That’s a striped cavern tomato. Its skin naturally has orange stripes.”
“What happened to the regular tomatoes?”
“We ran out of the globe variety last night. Should be getting a fresh batch from the greenhouse next week.”
He scoffs. “Nextweek? You expect me to eat this feeder crap for a week?”
“I can assure you that our striped cavern tomatoes are up to par with Tier One standards. They’re an excellent heirloom variety suitable for stuffing, grilling, slicing, and they pair great with a salad.”
The man shakes his head, muttering under his breath something about how this is why he usually sends his wife to fetch groceries. Then, he tosses the tomato over his shoulder and stalks off.
The propelled produce hits me square in the chest before splatting onto the gray granite floor. I glare at the back of the man’s balding head, fantasizing about how satisfying it would feel to pour my can of expired beans over his haughty face. Even the attendant’s lips pinch together as she appraises my half-empty basket.
“Orelle?”
Throat tightening, I spin towards the woman exiting the food bank with three stuffed baskets. Her silver locks are a near match for the tailored silk dress that drapes effortlessly down her petite frame. And though there are at least fifteen feet between us, I swear her signature floral fragrance tickles at my nose. Familiar amber eyes widen as they assess my patchwork dress, worn sandals, and meager findings.
I collect my basket from the metal counter and take a deep inhale before striding towards my mother.
CHAPTER SIX
I pather back in a stiff hug, then gently nudge her away from the food bank’s narrow doorway as two teen boys come barging through. “What are you doing here?”
Although my mother’s arms are full with her three baskets, she manages to free a hand enough to tidy up my errant curls. “Your father and I decided to come visit for the Hunt. We swung by your cozy little cabin, but no one answered, so I thought I’d stock up on the usual fixings to hold us over during our stay.”
I ignore the look she casts at my paltry provisions and nod like that makes perfect sense, although my parents haven’t attended a single Hunt since I’ve been eligible. “Oh. Uh, well, you’re welcome to swing by again before the selection.”
“Nonsense! Come back with me. I know your father would love to see you, and I could use a hand, anyway.”
