The morning started normal enough in the Zone. Atlas stepped out of his cabin, rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and nearly tripped over a basket of potatoes sitting on his doorstep.
Not one basket—three. Each one stuffed with fresh roots, a few carrots sticking out like orange fingers.
He looked down the path. Every porch in sight had the same problem. Baskets, crates, loose piles of greens.
The farmer at the edge of the fields must have had a bumper crop and decided the whole settlement needed feeding.
By midday it got worse. Someone baked pies to say thanks for the potatoes. Then another person baked pies for the pie-baker. The smell of crust and fruit hung thick over the square.
Tables appeared out of nowhere, loaded with jars of jam, knitted scarves that no one asked for, and little carvings of sheep that looked slightly offended.
