She’s got a mug and a dish cloth in her hands, and she turns them together absently, working the cracked ceramic dry even as the door opens. Tess turns just enough to catch that glance; bad day, she knows, before he even says a word. It won’t be the last. Her eyebrows knit together. Her hair is loose and damp, leaving a wet path around the shoulders of her t-shirt. She smells like plain soap. The stench on his clothes has her scrunching up her nose.

But then there’s that bullshit with the ration cards. Autumn is in full swing, but it’s still early in the season for FEDRA to be tightening everyone’s belts; wages getting slim now bodes ill for the winter ahead.

“Jesus Christ.”

She sets the mug down on the counter, draping the cloth over it, and she walks over. She leans across him to pick up the cards; she doesn’t doubt it’s exactly as few as he’s said, but she counts anyway, just to know it’s real, smoothing them out as she goes.

She fixes him with a frown.

“It was twenty-three, two weeks ago.”