Ashes and Empty Bowls

The ration line curled past the crater where City Hall used to be, a sluggish metal serpent reflecting the weak sunlight. Dust devils danced across the blasted concrete, each gust a reminder of the day the sky rained fire. A woman with eyes like chipped flint guarded the front of the line. Her name was Mara, and the faded blue of her uniform hinted at a life before the bombs. She clutched a dented clipboard, the only barrier between order and chaos. A young boy, no older than seven, darted out of the line and weaved his way through the crowd, heading toward the crater's edge. "Hey! Get back here, Leo!" Mara barked, her voice raspy from years of breathing in the dust. She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose, then muttered, "Trouble never ends."