Letters from the Ruins

In the third year of nuclear winter, I am still living in the ruins. Lao Chen, who brought me alive, is very reliable. He knows where is safe, when to hide, and which piece of gravel will kill you. But yesterday I dug out a diary at the bottom of the pool, and the writing was deeply engraved: "Old Chen is dead. Don't believe it." Today, I used a tester to test my talent, and a red mark appeared on the screen indicating that it was out of range. There is a shapeless thing in my brain that connects to a fourth dimension that I cannot see. I have a metal plate from District 7 on my chest, holding down everything I should have owned for three years. And Lao Chen is standing three steps away from me now. I clutched the knife, waiting for it to turn around.