Chapter 1
The Fridge
I opened the hostel fridge and knew the steak was gone before I saw the shelf.
I'd put it there the night before. I remembered buying it because it was the cheapest cut that still felt like a meal. I remembered folding the paper so it wouldn't leak. I remembered telling myself I'd cook it after work.
But the shelf was empty.
I moved things around anyway. A tub of margarine. A plastic container with a cracked lid. A carton of milk with no name on it. The fridge smelled in the way shared fridges do when no one cares enough to make it better, and moving things around didn't help. The smell was a mix between leftover KFC and expired milk.
The steak wasn't there.
Food disappeared here all the time. People took what they wanted and moved on. I had learned that early. I closed the fridge once, then opened it again.
The shelf was warm.
I held my hand there longer than I needed to. It was not residual cold warming back up. It felt like something had been resting there and had only just been removed.
Behind me, the kitchen was busy. The table was full. Cards slapped against the laminate. Someone laughed.
“Did anyone take a steak from the fridge?” I asked.
One of them looked up and shrugged. The others kept playing. No one said yes. No one said no. No one cared.
I stood there with my hand still inside the fridge, feeling stupid for expecting a different answer. When I closed the door, it shut gently, like it had been waiting for me to stop looking.
I went back to my room and lay on the lower bunk. Footsteps moved through the hallway. Languages overlapped. Someone zipped a bag shut. Someone else sang quietly and then stopped.
I stayed awake longer than I should have, thinking about that shelf and how it had felt against my skin.
