Newt stepped into the next foodie place he came across because it was mostly empty on the inside. A man stood behind a grill—like something you’d find at a real neighborhood cookout, Newt supposed—seemingly not caring that only about half the smoke from the meat he cooked escaped through the open windows in the front. The rest hovered like a mini-weather system along the ceiling of the establishment. Newt coughed a couple of times, then asked a guard standing nearby how much it cost to eat there.

The man was either chewing on some of the goods himself or smacking on gum. He had a Launcher strung over his shoulder and looked as bored out of his mind as one can be.

“Huh?” he asked, trying to make that single word sound as rude as possible.

“I just got here,” Newt responded, smart enough to avoid any kind of arrogant display. “How does... money work around here? How can I earn some to buy food?”

The man swallowed—Newt could actually hear the gulp of it. “Officially? There ain’t no money. This place is welfare, man, didn’t you get the post in your hotel room?” He laughed at that but stopped when Newt didn’t join in. “Old Leroy here will give you a bite or two. He’s one of the best around, cooks like his grandmammy taught him, no doubt. But sniff around the Palace a bit and you’ll, uh, how do I wanna say it, you know... Improve your circumstances. Yeah, there ya go. There ain’t no money but you can definitely be poor. Know what I mean, big guy?”

Newt just shook his head and said, “No.”

“Well, ain’t you a lot of fun. Get some food before I decide to kick your ratty blond-haired ass out of here. Get on, now. I ain’t in the mood to talk to no Cranks, anyhow.”

Newt understood survival. He understood it more than most.

He happily accepted a plate of food and chowed it down, even though he’d eaten just an hour or two earlier. It was beef again. Chicken again. Apparently the Crank Palace had no idea what a fruit or vegetable was. As Newt took his last couple of bites and wiped his mouth with a scrawny, half-wet napkin, he had an amusing but very apt question pop into his mind.

Where in the hell were they getting all these cows and chickens?

* * *

Something had switched in his mind and he was ready to leave. He hated the sinking feeling of uncertainty that consumed him—could he go back to that shack and live unhappily ever after with Keisha, Dante, Terry, and a crazy woman with burns all over her hands and knees? Really. What was he going to do here? What was the plan? He’d staved it off for a while, but those hated fingers of despair were clutching at his heart. But in the immediate future of the next 30 minutes, an hour, the rest of the day... He just wanted to be with familiar people again, no matter how slight the familiar part of the equation might be.