Jesus Torres

Alone and Dying in a Once Glorious Land

Old Man Westport sits in the median of a busy intersection. In this heat, it’s virtually a suicide attempt. I recall my father, years ago, lamenting that old Westport had to sell the lakehouse his parents had left him, and what a shame that had been. I trudge across the parking lot into the Permaserve. The only grocers left within ten miles of this neighborhood. The shelves are half empty. You can tell everyone knows there’s a food shortage; they know enough to avoid talking about it out loud. After the gas panic last year, that kind of talk would be irresponsible.