I sit on the edge of the clean bed for a whole thirty seconds, just marveling at it. A bed with corners and sheets. With a fucking pillow. It doesn't smell like blood, piss, or failure.
It smells… like fabric softener.
This is the apocalypse coequal of a five-star spa day.
I run my fingers over the mattress, half expecting it to growl at me or explode into spores or some demon-possessed zombie priest. But no. It just… exists.
Maybe I'm dead. Like for real this time. Maybe this is hell and it comes with memory foam.
Still buzzing from the find, I pace the room like a raccoon in a new trash can. There's a working faucet!
A working faucet like this wasn't a year and six months into the apocalypse!
Lord, when I turn the handle, cold water splashes out like it's no big deal. I catch some in my hands and splash my face, and it feels like a religious experience. I hiss, inhale, and nearly cry.
But then, logic tap-tap-taps its crusty little finger on my shoulder.
