In the year 2022, it wasn’t appropriate to cough, sneeze or have the flu.

I gazed out the window, the guys in spacesuits were back again with their spray throwers.

The radio droned on and on, raving about some lunatic who tried to infect other people after learning that Covid-19 had entered his body.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

The door clattered with each knock. My soul almost rattled out of me. Quietly, I shuffled to the peeling hardwood door. The fanlight windows let in a series of beams. Morse code. The ration had arrived.

I counted as I waited. I wanted to make sure the person at the door was far away before I started the task of grabbing what lay on the other side.

I coughed.

Pretending that nothing was wrong I reached for the box of gloves, pulled out the only pair that I had, put the gloves on, examined how worn they looked, decided I didn’t care and opened the door.

A stream of light plunged in. I threw my arms up in defense. Living in darkness hadn’t prepared me for the brightness of the grey skies. Quickly I grabbed the parcel before the outside air could contaminate my lungs.

I slammed the door shut.

I pulled off the gloves and observed the ration box. It seemed smaller.

Uncovering the contents I looked at the food I was expected to live off for the week. A measly block of cheese, mouldy bread, some crackers, a bag containing 3 eggs, powdered milk and 7 tea bags.

The whiff of cheese reached my stomach, which gave a low grumble. I grinned mirthlessly. Putting the lid back on the box, I decided it was about time I washed my hands.

I stalked past a load of colourful canvases, empty tubes of paint, a kite, a couple of books with scuffed corners, Lego blocks, a CD player and a BTS album.

The sink was full of plates I’d yet to wash. I fit my hands into the sink with difficulty, avoiding the dirty plates. I let the water run. There was no soap left. I reached for the slab of fat and lathered my hands with that, following that 20 second procedure that was so common to see. After I was done, I turned off the tap, flicked the excess water off my hands and dried my hands on the shirt I was wearing.

Cheese.

I remember I used to hate cheese. Those were different days. You could be picky with food. Not anymore. It was hard to be choosy when there was nothing else but mouldy scraps. I had the choice between starvation and rotting food. I chose to live.

I returned to where the rations were and began to nibble. My stomach demanded for more than what I’d been given. I scolded it. Still, I found myself thinking, was there nothing else I could eat?