![]() I don’t know why they bother with the tents. ![]() ![]() There’s a cream-colored canvas shrouding everything on the outside, but it’s obvious from the interior that this is a solid, freestanding building. I squint up at the long, whitewashed wooden beams supporting the ceiling. I take a glance around the half-empty dining hall. I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting here, hunched over an unfinished slice of cake. I try to breathe it out, try to stretch the stress out of my muscles, but nothing helps. ![]() Tension gathers in my shoulders, knotting together to generate dull, throbbing pain that branches across my back. But somehow this feels like a new kind of hell. Slowly, I drag my free hand down my face. I never meant to disfigure an innocent piece of cake-it’s downright criminal to waste food, especially cake-but there’s something soothing about the repetitive motion and the soft, gentle resistance of the vanilla sponge. ![]() I keep tapping the cake with the tines of my fork, each time a little harder, and now it’s half-collapsed and the frosting is scarred. I don’t think I’ve ever lost my appetite.īut I’m staring at a perfectly good piece of cake right now, and for some reason, I can’t eat it. ![]()
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