Bay City hadn’t changed much since Florian, Tory, and I arrived. It’s the same old sub-urban air in the same old way it always had been. The sidewalks are basically 55% tourists, 45% broken dreamers like myself, and 5% actually happy people. As I stepped into the supermarket, I recognized the reason why I was trying to avoid the job in the first place: people. Children begging their weary-eyed mothers to buy them candy. Old coots struggling to read price tags. Babies crying. Spouses arguing. Smelly sots who probably haven’t showered in a week. Ugh.
As I came across the frozen foods section, the only section I could afford, I peeked into the frostbitten glass. Colorful boxes full of promises of colorful foods and the sort. I grabbed mine and Florian’s meals. And there’s only one brand Tory’ll eat: Starving Buff, a collection of frozen breakfasts, lunches, and dinners packed with protein and other indiscernible stuff. I looked down at the price tags an