I ate my lunch. Belle watched me do it like a warden supervising a difficult inmate, which felt about right given how the last two weeks had gone.
Four strips of bacon. Scrambled eggs that had gone slightly rubbery from sitting in the warming tray. Grilled chicken that tasted like the concept of chicken more than actual chicken. A banana that had one brown spot Belle pointed at and told me to eat around because the potassium mattered and she wasn't wasting good produce on my dramatics.
The C-rank metabolism turned every plate into a suggestion. I'd need a second run through the line before Monterey briefing, and probably a third before Vale murdered me tomorrow morning under the banner of education.
