I died in the winter of the apocalypse’s fifth year, bitten to death by mutant rats.
Before I died, I gave the half-moldy compressed biscuit I’d struggled so hard to find to the little girl I’d found in the ruins.
She called me big sister.
When I opened my eyes again, the air conditioner was blowing warm air at 28 degrees, and pictures of fried chicken and burgers on my phone’s food delivery app were painfully vivid.
I was back six months before the catastrophe.
I didn’t cry or smile. I simply opened my bank account.
Looking at the eight-digit balance and the two-zone space that had appeared out of nowhere in my palm, I had only one thought:
This time, I’m going to build a fortress that will never lose power and will always have a hot meal.
I’m going to stock enough supplies to keep ten thousand people alive for ten years.
That winter was too cold. I don’t want to go through it again.
