A Hero's Morning Fuel

I scrambled up the wooden leg of the coffee table, determined to find proper rations. Duty calls even when rain is tapping outside, but a hungry hero can't save anyone. Sitting on a porcelain plate was a cold bread roll crust, smelling faintly of toasted dough. It wasn't a hot chili dog from a street cart—it was plain and dry, which honestly made me a little sad—yet it was honest fuel. I grabbed both sides of the crust, hauled it upright, and took a firm, crumbly bite. It was tough, but I chewed through it. If this city needs me vigilant today, at least my stomach won't complain.