Six Thin Crepes

The six survivors came over the ridge at a run, and Michael had six eggs left.

He counted them again in the carton, though the number had not improved. Flour, half a cabbage, a few strips of cooked beef, and enough sauce to make every mistake taste intentional. That was the whole supply he could reach without digging into sealed stock he had no idea how to replace.

Marn stood beside the open service window, watching her people approach. “They’ve been walking since dawn. They’ll eat whatever you can make.”

“Good,” Michael said. “Because I’m about to make whatever I can.”

Jory sat against the truck’s front wheel, wrapped in a blanket. He looked steadier than he had after the soup, though his eyes still followed the approaching crew with a wary focus. The truck’s engine ticked as it cooled. Michael could hear every sound over the griddle’s hiss, including the tiny rattle from the dashboard that had started shortly before the first world-jump.

The survivors reached the ten-meter boundary and slowed. One stumbled, caught herself, then kept moving. Their clothes were patched with mismatched cloth and plastic. They carried packs, a few long-barreled weapons, and the careful, watchful look of people who had learned to keep moving even when tired.

A woman at the front had a metal assembly strapped across her back. She set it down gently when she reached Marn.

“Everyone here?” Marn asked.

“Everyone who left with us,” the woman replied. Her gaze went to the truck. “This is the cook?”

“Michael,” he said.

“Neris. I brought the part.” She tapped the assembly with one knuckle. “You said it might match the truck.”

Marn’s eyes flicked over the six survivors, making sure each one was standing. “They get fed first. Then we settle the trade.”

Michael had no argument with the order. He turned to the griddle before the sight of six hungry people could make him start inventing ingredients.

Jianbing, then. Thin, crisp-edged, and forgiving if you knew how to work fast. He whisked flour with water and a pinch of salt, chopped the cabbage small, and divided the last strips of beef into careful slivers. The eggs he held back for the griddle, one per serving. He had enough batter for a seventh crepe, barely, but the last one would be small.

“Can you make these larger?” asked a broad-shouldered man at the end of the line. He spoke without pushiness, but his gaze stayed on the food. “Some of us haven’t eaten since yesterday.”

“I can make them wider,” Michael said. “I can’t make more food appear.”