Page 47 of Chosen By Swift

“How do I know how much things cost? How am I supposed to budget?”

“Oh,” he said, finally understanding. “Well, we are currently a family of two so we are allowed to purchase a set ration of fresh and packaged food. If we exceed those rations, we pay a set price per item.”

“Not per pound?” She picked up a potato that, upon further inspection, didn’t pass muster. “Someone should be here culling this produce. Look at this.” She held up the potato. “This one is getting soft.”

“I’ll put in a complaint.” He took the potato from her and placed it on the pile. “And, no, it’s not per pound. It’s by item. The prices are somewhere up front, but I’ve never had to use them. The monthly food rations are very generous.”

“But what happens to all the food that doesn’t get eaten?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted.

“I don’t like food waste. It’s sinful. I won’t allow it in our home.” She turned left at the end of the aisle and walked toward the meat section. Taken aback, she said, “There’s no butcher.”

“Is there supposed to be?” Swift asked uncertainly.

“In my experience, yes.” She leaned forward to scrutinize the clear packages of meat in the freezing cold cases. “This is the strangest way to sell meat.”

“How do you buy meat?”

“I don’t. We slaughter and process our own meat at the farm. We eat some of it fresh. Some of it is smoked or salted or canned. The rest of it goes into the cold storage unit we have in our cellar. It’s run by solar batteries and keeps everything frozen and safe until we can eat it.”

“Canned?”

“Jars,” she explained, realizing how very little Swift knew of life on the surface of her planet. “You take the meat when it’s raw and pack it into hot broth. The jars go into a pressure canner and then onto shelves for eating later. Same thing with produce from the garden. Though, we don’t pressure can those. We just do those in a plain water bath. Outside,” she added. “It’s hot work so we do it outside in the old outdoor kitchen that my great-grandparents built.”

“But if you have the capability to freeze—”

“Yes, but it’s limited space. Plus, our family is so large that maintaining enough food in the stockpile for hard times requires us to keep food in various forms. Canned, dried, fermented—”

“How long did it take you to learn all of this?” Swift moved close enough that the basket he carried bumped her hip.

“Putting food by?” She shrugged. “I learned by following my mother around since I was little.” She moved along to the roasts which were, thankfully, not cut into measly portions. She picked up one container and then another before finding one that had enough marbling. She placed it in the basket and noticed Swift’s interested stare. “What?”

“What’s the differencebetween thesetwo cuts of meat?”

“The fat,” she said, pointing out the marbling. “Roasts are always better with some fat and these were—”

“Grain fed,” a rough, gravelly voice said from behind her.

She turned toward the man who had finished her sentence. He was a bit taller than Swift but so thin his bones were prominent in his face and neck. His hair was so short, almost shaved, and his jaw had a shadow of stubble. He had bright blue eyes that held a spark of amusement. “Yes,” she said finally. “They were.”

“How the hell do you know that, Ram?” Swift stepped forward and clasped the other man’s forearm in greeting.

“I like to read,” the man replied. “I enjoy learning obscure things like meat science.”

“You would. Alys, this is Rampage.” Swift introduced them. “He’s a good friend of mine.”

“Ma’am.” Rampage nodded at her. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“And you.” She noticed the stiff way he stood, as if he were uncomfortable or uncertain of how to act around her. Coupled with his thinness, he looked desperate for a hot meal and fellowship. “Would you like to have dinner with us?”

“Ma’am?” Rampage seemed taken aback.

“Dinner,” she repeated. “Would you like to join us tonight?”

Rampage glanced at Swift as if seeking permission. “Swift?”

“We’d love to have you, Rampage.”

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