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too, and busy eating
something clutched in its tiny hands, crumbs clasped in the stretched skin
between it bony, clawed fingers.  I can see that it doesn't realize how
long my reach is.  Before it can move on, I bring my weapon down hard.
    I close my eyes and turn my head away as I strike.  There is
a crunch and splat.  The rat squeals.  I peek, teeth clenched in a
grimace.  It is thrashing, rolling on its back with its legs in the
air.  My aim was bad.  I want to puke, but I lift the bar and hit it
again, making sure to get the head this time.  The rat goes still. 
Blood oozes into a puddle around its body, mixing with a grey spatter of
brains.  I stare at it in revulsion.
    By the time I make myself move again, the puddle has stopped
growing and the blood at its edges has started to dry.  I stash my
poultice in my bag and rewrap my foot, avoiding thinking about my next
task.  Then I poke the rat’s body with the end of my metal stick. 
It’s limp, blood clotting in the brown fur.  This is food, I tell
myself.  I try to think of it as something anyone would be happy to
eat.  A bird of some sort.  A chicken.  Only, chickens don't
have fur.  I grit my teeth and glance around for something to cut it
with.  Broken glass is everywhere.  I find a large piece and use it
like a knife.  I cut through the fur on the belly of the rat and pull it
outward, like I’m removing its jacket.  There’s a horrible tearing noise
as I do.  I gag, but refuse to let myself stop.  I skin the whole
thing, struggling with the crushed head.  My stomach heaving, I hack it
off completely, and follow by lopping off the tail.  Then I cut deeper
into the belly, open it up, and try to empty the guts out.  Some come out
easily, but not even shaking does much to detach the rest.  I have to use
the glass to scrape the inside, the smell of blood and partially digested
garbage rising into my face, my fingers slipping in the gore.  Again, I
gag.  The whole process is entirely vile.  I’m no longer in the least
bit hungry, which makes me laugh out loud.  If nothing else, I’ve made my
hunger go away.  But I will eat this disgusting creature.  If
I don't, I’ve put myself through this for nothing.  I’ve wasted its meager
life for nothing.  And though I can't say I like rats, I can't help but
empathize with it.  We’re too much the same, this rat and I.  It
could be me that someone whaps with a metal bar, guts, and eats.  Couldn't
it?
    I return to the fire barrels with the edible portions tucked into
my clothes.  When I get there, I take up my spot along the concrete wall
and pretend to nod off.  But I watch and wait until everyone seems to be
asleep.  Then I jab the carcass onto the end of my metal bar and quietly
sneak up to one of the barrels of fire.  I half expect to be discovered
and chased off, but being a scavenger is tiring work, and everyone sleeps
soundlessly through my rat-roast.  Everyone, but that crazy boy that ran
at me when I first got here.  He watches me, wide-eyed and trembling, from
the place he crouches about fifteen feet away.  I don't feel sorry for him
until I see his mark.  Then, something human, something compassionate,
stirs inside me.  When I think the rat is fully cooked, I go back to the
wall and pick the meat from the bones.  There’s not a lot of it. It’s
tough and rangy, but it’s protein.  I pull off one small chunk, sit
forward, and toss it to the boy, who is still watching me.  It lands
directly in front of him on the pavement.  His eyes turn to it.  He
tenses, but he does not move.  The meat stays on the pavement.  Of
course.  He's crazy, but he's smarter than me. 
    Trying not to feel its loss, I turn back to finish the small
portion I have left.  I gnaw on the bones then lick my fingers
clean.  I throw the remains in the fire, return to my spot, and fall
asleep with food in my stomach at last.
     
    ***
     
    I am woken at the crack of dawn by the sounds of a