Field-Ready Chew

I scooped those slow-dried cinnamon apple wedges off the baking sheet, bundled them tight into a square of brown butcher paper, and marched straight out to the cedar porch railing. Sitting cooped up inside waiting on rations is a pure waste of daylight. I creased open the wrap, picked out a dark, curled slice, and gave it a solid bend between my thumbs. Flexible as harness leather, zero dampness, smelling sharp of sweet spice and wood smoke. I tore off half the wedge with a clean bite—dense, tart, and built to fuel a hard march. I folded the paper shut, tucked the parcel into my cargo pocket, and locked the flap down.