Lunch for Wednesday - CHRISTOPHER KIM '27

The line snaked around the block. Mostly silent, except for the occasional gravel crunching under worn shoes. People stood close but didn’t speak. The sun was still low, and the buildings’ shadows stretched like prison bars across the pavement. 

Jo had gotten there early. She always did. You had to if you wanted RealFood™ before it sold out. And it always sold out.

Next to her, Nate picked at the yellowed frays on his company jacket; the logo was scraped off. 

“You think it’s real fruit this time?” he asked.

Jo shrugged. “They say it is every week.”

“Yeah, but this time they said ‘whole.’ Not ‘flavor-infused.’ Not ‘fruit-derived.’ Not ‘fruit-like.’ Just ‘whole.’”

“That’s marketing. You should know that by now.”

“Maybe.”

The line inched forward. Someone coughed behind them. Nobody turned. Everybody knew the cameras were watching, red dots blinking every second. There was a camera right above Jo. She could hear it turning as it scanned the crowd. A recording played on loop:

“All transactions are final. Violence will result in a point loss.”

Jo kept her eyes ahead. A man up front was arguing with a drone. He didn’t have enough credits—probably tried to scan a blank. As the man was shouting, the drone stood still, indifferent. After the man had stopped, the bot gave a warning. The man opened his mouth to scream again, but before he could say anything, the drone sprayed him with a thin mist. He staggered out of the line, muttering, eyes red. The rest of the crowd shifted forward. 

Jo didn’t flinch. You learned not to look too long. She didn’t want to end up like Cass. Attention made you vulnerable. 

She remembered when there were regular stores. Not towers that just shot out food. Her mother used to take her to one with fluorescent lights and pop music, and too many choices. You could touch things. Smell things. Now, you just hoped the algorithm gave you enough for protein—that isn’t powder, of course. 

They reached the kiosk. A sleek white panel and a pulsing scanner. Nate went first.

“Scan,” the screen said.

He held out his wrist. The screen blinked green.

“Available: 29 Credits. Tier: Access 2. Bonus: Active Referral.”

“RealFood™,” he said.

“RealFood™: Whole Fruit Units. Limit One Per Consumer.”

A slot opened. A small box slid out.

He opened it right there. Inside was a pale beige cube wrapped in a material that resembled biodegradable plastic.

Nate stared at it.

“Is this it?” he asked.

Jo didn’t answer. It was her turn.

“Scan.”

She lifted her wrist, burn marks faint beneath the strap. The scanner flickered. Yellow light this time.

“Available: 18 Credits. Tier: Access 1. No Bonus.”

“RealFood™.”

“Only Available for Access 2 and Above. Please select an alternate.”

Jo swallowed hard and clenched her fist.

“BasicUnit™.”

A different slot opened. A gray packet fell out. A brown powdered mix with artificial caffeine. She paused before picking it up.

Nate stood next to her, holding the box. He hadn’t eaten it yet. “Want to split it?”

She shook her head. “Eat it. You bought it.”

“I don’t even know if it’s real.”

“Does it matter?”

He looked at the cube. Then at her. “I don’t know.”

They left the kiosk and walked toward the train stop, past the empty storefronts filled with fake plants and hologram mannequins. A billboard flashed above them:

“You Deserve More. You Deserve Better. Upgrade to Access 3 Today.”

“You still doing chair work?” Nate asked.

Jo nodded. “Clocked in yesterday. Eight hours.”

“How do they know if you liked the ad?”

She shrugged. “Brain scans. Dopamine spikes.”

“Hard work?”

“Mostly empty. Some rusted bikes here and there. Old men smoking, a few dogs with tags still on.”

“They pay extra?”

“They said they do. You never get to see it.”

“Maybe they’ll pay more. Be grateful or whatever.”

“Maybe.”

They reached the corner where the camera coverage stopped. Jo stopped walking. The packet was still in her hand. She thought about eating it. Instead, she sat on the curb and let it rest on her knee.

“Do you ever feel full?” she asked.

Nate peeled the wrapper on the fruit cube, tearing out the sticky pieces of plastic left over. “No.”

“Me neither.”

She watched the people pass. Everyone walks fast, eyes down, wristbands glowing faintly in the dim morning light.

“Maybe it’s not about being full,” she said.

“What is it then?”

“Maybe it’s about needing.”

Nate took a bite of the cube, chewing slowly.

“It tastes like waiting.”