Long Johns - A Flash Fiction
I hold my hands near the fireplace, warming them from iced numbness. "I miss my longjohns, the bright red wool ones with the fold-down back flap."
John laughs. "Mine were footies. Bright red, but no flap."
Rufus nods, unwraps a bit of meat from a red cloth sack, slides it onto his stick, and holds it over the fire. "Ayup. I got ones kinda like that for my kids."
He shuts up then, sudden-like. We listen to the hiss-pop of the cooking meat, the crackling fire, the restless infected wandering outside.
We don't ask about Rufus' kids.
We aren't hungry.
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