Chapter 6: Fried Chicken and the Taste of Hope

After leaving Mr. Ford's tent, many laborers were still wiping away tears, deeply moved.

You could hear sniffling all the way back to the barracks. Someone started humming an old folk song—soft and hopeful, the kind you only sing when you think maybe, just maybe, things will get better.

After all, none of us had ever met such a kind and generous supervisor before.

There was a new spring in people’s steps, even with boots caked in mud. For a few minutes, the world didn’t seem so cold or cruel.

As I was leaving, I suddenly remembered: just now, Mr. Ford had been busy serving us and didn't seem to have eaten anything himself.

It nagged at me—the thought of him skipping his meal so we could eat. I slowed, wrestling with my own hunger and a rising sense of guilt.

Earlier, I'd saved a bit of pickle in my pocket, unwilling to eat it all at once. After a moment's hesitation, I turned back and called out:

"Mr. Ford, are you busy?"

My voice sounded small in the quiet, but I waited anyway, shifting from foot to foot.

There was a muffled noise from inside the tent, as if his mouth was full.

A sort of slurping sound, like someone trying to swallow in a hurry. I frowned.

"Mr. Ford, are you all right?"

Another whimper came from within.

A quick, high-pitched noise—almost like a dog caught with its paw in the cookie jar. My heart thudded. Had something happened?

My heart leapt—could Mr. Ford be in trouble?

I felt a surge of panic. What if he’d hurt himself, or worse?

I hurriedly lifted the tent flap.

The cold rushed in behind me as I ducked through. My boots squelched against the damp ground.

Inside, Mr. Ford sat with his cheeks puffed out, looking at me with a touch of embarrassment. He held two golden objects in his hands, and in front of him was a cup filled with a dark liquid.

He looked like a kid caught raiding the snack cabinet—wide-eyed and guilty, crumbs on his lips. The smell coming from those things in his hands was incredible.

I stood there, stunned, until I realized—Mr. Ford was eating. But I'd never seen food like what he held before; it gave off a unique, tempting aroma.

It hit me all at once: fried chicken. And the cup—was that Coke? My jaw dropped. I hadn’t seen real fried chicken in years, not since before the Big Freeze.

The fried chicken smelled like Sunday afternoons at KFC, and the Coke fizzed with the promise of something almost forgotten.

Unable to help myself, I swallowed. Noticing my gaze, Mr. Ford offered me one of the items in his hand.

"Um... do you want to try it? I spent 50 reputation points to trade for this fried chicken drumstick and Coke... It's really expensive, so please leave me some..."

Reputation points—whatever that meant these days. Out here, they were worth more than cash.

He grinned sheepishly, holding the drumstick out like an offering. The Coke fizzed quietly, beads of condensation running down the cup. For a second, I forgot about everything else.

I instinctively wanted to refuse—how could I accept Mr. Ford's food?

But my stomach growled, and his eyes were kind, and for a moment, all the barriers between us melted away. I reached out, hands trembling, as if taking communion.

How could I just eat what belonged to Mr. Ford?

He saw my hesitation and nodded, the ghost of a smile on his lips. "Go ahead, Derek. We all deserve something good once in a while."

As I bit into the drumstick, grease and salt exploding on my tongue, I realized: maybe hope tasted like fried chicken after all.