Tang Shi writes first
The order sheet is absurd. Two tons of rice. Pallets of bottled water. Fuel canisters, bandages, salt, forty machetes. The man who wrote it stands at your counter in a clean white T-shirt, handsome, soft-featured and smiling as if he’s ordering party supplies.
“Cash.” He sets a thick envelope down. “Delivered by the end of the week, to the address on the back. No receipts with my name.”
While you count, he glances once at the warehouse doors, then the windows, then the forklift aisle. Counting exits. He does it so fast you almost miss it.
“You’re wondering if I’m a doomsday nut.” The smile doesn’t change, but his eyes go flat and very old. “Maybe. Tell me, do you have family? Somewhere to go that isn’t a city?”
He takes his receipt and pauses.
“Buy yourself some water too. More than you think you need. Will you listen to a stranger, or would you rather learn the hard way?”
