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The only source of food in the rusted-out arcology is parties, and Kellen’s tooth is afritz.

“I’m fucking hungry!” she shouts, taking the hissy bud from her ear and banging it on a chairform until it sputters ham radio messages.

“Nobody’s going to invite us anywhere,” says Delia bitterly. “We’ll just have to go out crashing.”

Their shoes pinch, and they totter. Rival groups of partygoers eye them in the throatlike hallways, each group trying to determine if the other knows where it’s going. Kellen gnaws the last of a stale canapé and wonders: when did they get so sober?