[Author's POV]
The next morning was supposed to go well.
7:45am. I woke up to the most persistent stomach grumble I'd had in years. Every moment of restless movement on that bunk bed the previous night had been a cruel reminder that I'd barely touched the porridge.
Almost everyone had left their bowls mostly full. Everyone except Aria — she'd finished her bowl and quietly consumed mine alongside it, with the energy of someone who had no moral objections to that. The preference for going hungry was predictable, considering that most of us had walked into the cafeteria with the assumption that fried chicken was being served. It had smelled like it. It had strongly, specifically smelled exactly like it.
And this morning was supposed to be different. Cinnamon rolls. Omelettes. Toast with cream sauce, maybe. I'd gone to sleep with an actually watering mouth, impatiently waiting for the sun to come up.
It never did.
