Elias felt a rush of adrenaline. At the big-box stores, six dollars bought you two measly ounces. Here, it bought you a week of life.
Five minutes later, he took a bite. It was salty. It was slightly rubbery. It tasted like nothing in particular and everything all at once. It was the most beautiful meal Elias had ever eaten. It didn't taste like turkey or pork; it tasted like peace of mind.
The next morning, Elias drove his rusting sedan to the industrial park. The air smelled of salt and stale cardboard. He found the blue door. It looked like it hadn't been opened since the Cold War. He knocked, and a heavy sliding latch groaned.
That night, Elias sat in his kitchen, unable to resist. He picked a silver can at random. He pried it open, added boiling water to a bowl of greyish, chalky cubes, and waited.
The man, whose name tag read 'Bernie,' leaned in. "You won't find it here. Here, you're paying for the shiny foil and the mountain sunset on the label. You want the deep-cellar prices? You go to the back of the Valley Industrial Park. Look for a warehouse with a faded blue door. No sign. Just a number: 402." Elias hesitated. "Is it... legal?"
