Wednesday, September 24. My Apartment. Hangry.

Several hours later I was home, showered, and trying to figure out where to find food that wasn’t poison before I chewed my arm off.

As I was rather used to having two functional arms, I shelved that plan for later.

Besides, with my luck, if I did try to eat my arm, I’d probably throw that up too.

Lusa—Lusa’ta, I corrected with only a hint of spite—hadn’t been any help, so I tried the next thing I could think of: I asked ye ol’ interwebs about processed food and poison.

Hooboy. 

That was a rabbit hole I did not want to dive down. There was too much to take in and I didn’t have time. I needed to eat something.

 Right now. 

There hadn’t ever been a time in my life I could remember being this hungry. The closest might have been after Josh dragged us all on a multi-mile hike when he was courting the idea of joining the marines.

The human body was supposed to be able to go ages without food, right? And ‘fasting for health’ had been making headlines recently, so this pressing need for nourishment was foreign to me. 

The only explanation was this magical contract I was supposedly caught up in. Now that I was no longer staring Lusa—Lusa'ta—in the face, I found myself doubting that really was the case. 

But how else was I supposed to explain sleepwalking out of my apartment and driving across town? The alternatives seemed to be ‘magical contract’ or ‘extensive psychiatric care.’

I skimmed the search results.

Half the internet seemed convinced processed food was killing us. The other half appeared equally convinced that worrying about it was killing us.

Helpful.

The only remotely useful thing I found was an article about ingredient lists. Shorter was supposed to be better. It was as good a place to start as any.

I’d never seen the parking lot of my go-to grocer this empty. Then again, I was usually at work this time of day. A handful of cars dotted the lot, most parked far enough away from the building to be employees.

I got out of the car on shaky legs.

“Food. It’s just ahead. Food soon,” I muttered.

Yes, I know, talking to yourself is an early sign of insanity or something. I’d woken up a half hour away from my apartment talking to a woman who claimed I was magically contracted to her…really wasn’t worried about the talking to myself bit.

The doors slid open.

And a smell hit me.

I stopped as if I had walked into a wall.

My stomach roiled.

What was that?

It smelled like something had died in the entryway and someone had tried to solve the problem by dumping cleaner over the body. 

I couldn’t get any closer. 

Well, there went that plan. 

I could order pick-up…but those took half a day to fulfill. And I still had no idea what I could actually eat.

I took a step back. 

The doors slid shut.

For a long moment, all I could do was stare. 

Now what?

I fished my phone out of my pocket, trudging back to my car.

There had to be answers somewhere.

It took a few search queries, but finally I found a health-food grocer on the other side of Athens.

I mean, if health-food—which I’d always translated as expensive—didn’t have something I could eat, I could always just…

…just what? Wander out in the woods and hunt some squirrels?

Nope. 

I wasn’t that desperate yet. 

Besides, weren't squirrels basically tree rats? 

I think I’d rather chew my arm.

I felt weak and shaky by the time I pulled into the parking lot. My head felt like it was being squeezed by a giant who was neither jolly nor green.

Nourish was bigger than I expected. It looked like they were in what had once been a stand-alone drugstore. I had expected some strip-mall fusion of boutique coffee and expensive greens hole-in-the-wall, but this place looked nice. 

I got out of the car, hoping I wasn’t too early. I’d forgotten to check the hours before I left. 

The front doors slid open and the most amazing smell wafted out. Something rich with a hint of spice that smelled like fall. 

If a warm hug had a scent, this was it.

I drifted, following the smell.

A bakery-cafe took up one wall. Cosy seats dotted the corners. Tables with bouquets of tiny pumpkins and bundles of grains were already filled with a surprising number of customers. 

I took this all in, but was most interested in finding out what that smell was—and how fast I could eat it.

“Hi!” the clerk said. She looked college age and was entirely too bubbly for this early in the morning.

My head was pounding, I hadn’t gone this long without caffeine since…maybe high school. I tried to form a sentence that sounded reasonably intelligent. What I wanted to say was much more caveman.

Food. Good. You give.

I managed an equally inelegant, “What—?”

But she seemed to understand. 

“It’s our sourdough apple turnovers! The smell is a siren song.”

I nodded. She took that as encouragement.

“The sourdough is made from ancient grains, so it’s easy on the gut, and the apples are from one of the few organic orchards on the east coast! They are uh-mazing. Would you like one?”

“Yes. Please.”

“Coffee? We have fair-trade dark roast, a medium, and the house blend, which is my personal favorite!”

“Just the apple—thing, for now.” 

I didn’t know if I could do coffee, even with all the fancy labels slapped on it.

“Sure thing. Here or to go?”

“Here.”

She rang me up then popped a massive pastry that looked like it had pie blood somewhere in its family history on my plate. I took it and carefully walked over to the tables, carrying it like it might break. Picked a seat close to the bathrooms—just in case—though the way my stomach seemed to be approving of this smell, things were looking up.

I took a careful bite.

Oh. My. Stars.

Was food supposed to taste this good?

I waited for my stomach to heave. To dash to the bathroom.

Nothing. 

I ate a second bite. Then another.

The pastry vanished. I could eat another three, but my bank account would probably mutiny. 

So, I returned the plate and decided to risk a coffee. The clerk bubbled on about how the cream was from a local dairy. I smiled and nodded while I added enough that it looked like chocolate milk. Looked around for sweetener options. My choices were honey and raw sugar.

Decided not to push my luck. 

I thanked her and wandered off before taking a cautious sip.

No instant rejection. Good. 

After a few more, my head felt better. Everything seemed to snap into sharper focus.

I headed toward the far side of the store where neat aisles burst with unfamiliar brands. 

Where to start?

For the first time in days, I could think without feeling like I was trying to force my brain to push ideas through a strainer.

If the pastry had taught me anything, I could do apples and sourdough. That seemed like a place to start. I grabbed a shopping cart—why were they so tiny?—and headed toward produce.

If someone had asked me this morning what kind of apples there were, I would have said red, green and those weird yellow ones.

I was completely unprepared for the massive display boasting an overwhelming variety of apples. 

And it didn’t stop there. 

Further down was another display with pumpkins. Not just round orange ones. Knobbly yellow-green ones, pale striped, and these oblong things that looked like a cross between a yellow squash and a gourd. Along the wall were coolers bursting with greens I’d never heard of, and beets in a multitude of colors. 

I stopped and stared.

“Need some help?” A kid in a knitted cap and over-sized flannel shirt popped up from behind the pumpkin display. The apron name tag read River.

Was being exceptionally exuberant a requirement for working here? 

“I’m not sure where to start,” I said.

“Just beginning your whole food journey?”

“Uh…” 

‘Whole food’ sounded vaguely familiar. I think it had been mentioned in a few of the articles. 

“Something like that,” I said.

“Well, apples are a good choice. My favorite are the pink ones over there. They’re sweet, but still nice and crisp. Great snacking apple. Green blends for salads are in that cooler there, and cheeses are in the deli and there are dressings two aisles over next to the broths.”

I just stared.

“It’s a lot to take in,” River said with a smile. “Oh! There’s this guy—RealFoodRon—“ 

“RealFood…what?”

“RealFoodRon.” River was already thumbing through their phone. “He’s local, actually. I think. I’ve seen him in here a time or two. He does simple meals for real life people—you know, people with jobs and kids and such. Normal people.” 

River held up the phone showing RealFoodRon’s landing page. A pop-up with an offer for a free build-a-meal plan took up most of it.

I took another sip of coffee.

Meals for real people.

Whatever that meant.

“Anyway, he has this free shopping list. It’s gold. He has this meal planner too, but honestly? The shopping list is where I’d start,” River said, beaming. “I made his leftover bowl supreme last week. It was so good! Haven’t tossed food in ages.”

Leftovers not dying in the fridge sounded promising.

Then again, mine wouldn't be dying if I could eat them.

I dug out my phone.

Found Ron.

Found the list.

River laughed. “Sorry, I’m info-dumping.” 

I gave a noncommittal grunt and sipped more of my coffee. It occurred to me that there was one very important question.

I scanned the list. It was a solid page, but seemed simple enough. Please, please, please include caffeine…

There, toward the bottom: Coffee - whole bean.

I breathed a sigh of relief. “Do you guys sell the house coffee blend in whole bean?”

“It’s great, isn’t it? Coffee is over on aisle five.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“Any time. If you need help, just ask. Good luck on your journey!”

My journey? Ah—River had asked if I was starting a whole food journey. 

No, not intentionally. 

I was just trying to not die by magical contract. But sure, whole food journey sounded less fatal. 

And possibly escapable.

I actually got work done when I got home. 

That was unexpected. 

The headache eased. My stomach stopped trying to revolt every time I ate. Even MacMarster became manageable again.

Wednesday blurred into Thursday before I noticed. I spent both days bouncing between RealFoodRon's videos, my tiny apartment kitchen, and spreadsheets.

I wasn’t useless in the kitchen. Mom had insisted that any man with self-respect be able to cook at least basic meals. It wasn't a passion, but it had saved me plenty of money over the years.

By Thursday night I had a week's worth of meals in the fridge.

MacMarster was finally headed in the right direction. I even had every form I needed from their secretary, which was a miracle in itself.

I'd also tried some salad-pasta thing Ron swore by. 

It was surprisingly edible. 

If any of my buddies saw me eating this, they’d laugh in my face.

Well, I’d have to get used to it for now. They weren’t the ones with a magical contract emblazoned on their chests. 

The tattoo had been blissfully quiet. 

No pain. No tugging sensation. 

I could almost ignore the unease and sadness lingering in the back of my mind—present ever since my headache had cleared.

Maybe the bond Lusa talked about went both ways. Which meant they had to be hers. 

Those were definitely not my emotions.

I felt great.

Could she…feel mine? Keep tabs on me?

I did not like that thought. Shoved it far, far into the back of my mind along with that nebulous feeling of sorrow. 

No. 

My life. My head. 

I was not sharing.

I’d see her in the morning, as she’d ordered. It beat being forcibly dragged across town.

I was careful not to think just how much Wednesday morning had freaked me out. 

Then I’d head to the office. 

Get out at a normal time. 

See Sarah.

Lusa—oh come on, Lusa’ta was really a mouthful—had implied that she needed me to do something. 

That's how magical contracts worked, right?

Complete the quest.

Break the curse.

Everybody went home happy.

Maybe she needed something simple, like her finances put in a nice spreadsheet, or her taxes filed.

Didn’t explain why she expected me to upend my life for it, but—what the heck. As much as I hated to admit it, she was right. I felt a damn sight better. I might even stick with this whole-food thing for a while. 

Sure. She needed her taxes done. Why else would she have lassoed an accountant?