“I accept the conceit of this,” Bell said, “given the grease under your chin.”

“That—” She sucked in a deep breath (Bell feared the coming of her greatest sigh yet). “is a birthmark.”

Bell looked down.

“Here's the deal, Bell. I ought to have my phone on me, but it's gone, and I'm not pleased about it.”

“There aren't phones here,” Bell said to the dust. His mind wandered to the empty watch band on his wrist. He pictured the oily screen.

“Fine. Look, I'm cold, and I'm hungry, and I want to go home. Help me solve those three things and I won't punch you in the nose for the grease comment.”

But Bell was staring at the figs, drifting over the settling waters.

“Cold…” he murmured. “Hungry…” He stopped twisting the watch band.

“Marilyn, I don't get cold here. Or hungry.” He looked back at her. “I mean, I do, but— It's not the kind of cold or hunger you can get rid of. It lingers.”

“Fires are for Baals,” he thought.

He winced as her hand grabbed his shoulder. Her eyes were open.

“What do you mean? You have a shelter, yeah? Tell me you have food!”

Most of the figs were rotting in the wash. But Bell's eyes had settled on a lone fig, fallen in the dust, partially buried, peeking from under the bucket. He plucked it and held it in his palm, shell shocked. A soldier inspecting a grenade and finding no pin.

“Bell?”

He raised the fruit and bit through the skin, into the flesh. He worked his tongue to the center, feeling for sensations he'd long forgotten.

Thick… viscous… pulpy.. syrup. honey, sugar-