I hear children laughing a few small tables away from where Green Eyes and I are sitting. It’s such a surreal sound. Children are rare, most people don’t feel safe enough to bring children into the world outside of very secure settlements.

I try not to stare as the three of them, all under ten, play some card game. At another tiny table next to them are two adults, both seeming to take turns watching the trio of giggling kids as they take turns losing their game.

In order to keep my gaze busy, I look around the cramped restaurant. The tables are all barely two feet by two feet, and the handfuls of chairs stuck around them are all mismatched and with chipping paint. There’s threadbare tablecloths over three of the seven tables and none of the clumsily sewn curtains match. The air smells like my mystery stew from earlier and stale bread, the walls are naked brick with the occasional faded painting hung at random intervals to break up the constant brick.

I think I feel safe here.

“You look like a kid in a candy shop,” Green Eyes says, and my gaze snaps over to him for a moment.

“I’ve never been in a working restaurant before, let alone sat to eat in one,” I answer, feeling a little sheepish. I try to reign in my excitement, realizing that I probably look more than a little ridiculous.

“Life out there must be so hard, especially alone,” Peter mumbles, and a glance at his face tells me he’s looking at me with a strange mix of pity and concern. Though he isn’t wrong.

“It is hard,” I admit with a nearly silent sigh. I carefully bite my own tongue for a brief moment as Peter sits up a little straighter. I haven’t had someone to just talk to in such a long time, it’s hard to keep from just telling this borderline stranger everything. Maybe I’ll share just a little bit, lighten the burden some.

“It’s mostly quiet while traveling, which is good for the most part. But it gets to you, realizing you haven’t heard another living human’s voice in weeks, it isn’t easy.” I stare down at the threadbare tablecloth as I speak, my fingers fiddling with the fraying hem that rests in my lap.

“The zombies are easy enough to handle when there’s only one or two, hoards are practically a death sentence,” I pause and swallow a sudden lump in my throat. I don’t like hoards. “It’s safer to find somewhere to hide until the hoard moves on,” I finish lamely, giving a half-hearted shrug.

“Why are you so desperate to go back out there then?” Green Eyes asks me, his voice soft, as if he’s worried that I’m fragile. I guess I might be.

“There’s, uh, a place that I want to go,” I say, hearing my voice become less steady even to my own ears. 

“What sort of place?” Peter prompts me and I take a breath. I’m not totally sure if I want to share this, the idea of making it to Paradise is what’s kept me going after losing everything. It’s my crutch and light at the end of the tunnel. But maybe, if I share this with him, I could have some help on my journey.

“A settlement, maybe a month’s worth of walking from here, towards the South,” I start, forcing my gaze towards Green Eyes. “It’s called Paradise, it’s just like the old world, before everything fell apart. There’s schools and hospitals and houses and parks and it’s perfect.”

Now that I’ve finally spoken about Paradise, it’s like I can’t stop the words from tumbling out of my mouth. 

As I explain all that I know about Paradise, Peter stares at me as if I’ve grown a second head. LIke he can’t even comprehend what I’m telling him. 

“How did you even learn about this place?” He asks me after a moment, interrupting my spiel.

“A traveling trader, her name was Gwen, she told me all about it,” I say, feeling defensive at his disbelief. I know it sounds unbelievable, impossible even. But it is real, it has to be real.

“Here, wait a minute,” I tell Peter, squirming a little under his questioning gaze. I begin digging through my backpack, looking for the only scraps of proof I could possibly give to Green Eyes. Just as I feel my fingers brush against the flexible plastic that my only folder is made out of, a woman walks over to our table, carrying two large plates in each of her hands.

“Here you two go! Enjoy your food,” she says cheerfully before turning on her heel and hurrying off to the table where the children are still playing their game.

“I thought restaurants took orders before bringing food out,” I mumble, my indignation subsiding at the sudden sight of food. The large plate in front of me holds a big bowl of the spiced stew my stomach has been thinking about for so long. On the side there’s two crumbly looking biscuits and it’s all steaming hot. It’s been far too long since I’ve had a hot meal, my mouth is watering to an almost embarrassing degree.

“I think they’re supposed to, the bigger one on the northside does,” Peter tells me as he tears one of his biscuits in half and dunks one half into his stew. He lets it soak up a decent bit of stew before cramming it all into his mouth in one go.

I turn my plate a little to get a better look at my food and something glints in the flickering candlelight and upon further inspection I find that there’s a spoon underneath my biscuits. I take a hold of it and immediately scoop up a spoonful of stew. I didn’t bother to blow on it before shoving the bite of food into my mouth, which I quickly regret. It burns my gums and my throat as I hurriedly swallow, not wanting to spit it out and waste it. 

With watery eyes I set my spoon down and grab my water bottle, twisting it open as quickly as I can. Then I drink about half of its contents, which means I’ll need to refill it very soon.

“Too hot for you, Maveth?” Peter asks, sounding amused.

“Dunno how you didn’t burn the shit out of your own mouth,” I grumble in response, grabbing one of my biscuits.

“I like my food really hot,” is all Green Eyes supplies me with for an answer. 

I huff around my mouthful of biscuit as Peter dunks the other half of his biscuit into his stew, presumably to sop up more too hot stew. As I chew my biscuit, much more slowly, as I enjoy my sudden realization that I’m enjoying an actual baked good. The realization just dawned on me in the split second between deciding not to roll my eyes at Peter and huffing.

I fucking love bread.

I eat in silence for a while, at times I need to make myself slow down, not wanting to inhale the best meal I think I’ve ever had in my life. Or a very close second best.

I forget all about shoving my proof in Green Eyes’ face as well, at least for the time being.

The silence we slip into as we both focus on eating is comfortable, though it’s occasionally broken up by the chatter and laughter from the children.

I hope the restaurants in Paradise are like this.