Chapter Five - The Hunger Games (But It's Just Max)

CHAPTER FIVE

The Hunger Games (But It's Just Max)

MAX SAT IN his room.

On a pile of tacos.

The floor was tacos.
The chair was tacos.
The math book he was supposed to be doing?
Crunchy taco. Oops.

It had been three days.
Three long days.

He was hungry.

You’d think turning everything you touch into tacos would solve that.
Nope.

Because Max couldn’t eat any of them.

His mom had made a new house rule:

"No more tacos from your left hand, Max. We don’t know where they’ve been."

He tried making a bowl of cereal, taco.
He tried opening the fridge, taco.
He tried pouring a glass of water, taco.

Water taco.
(It was soggy. Do not recommend.)

Now, Max was losing it.

He opened a book to distract himself.
Taco.

He reached for his blanket.
Taco.

He touched his forehead.
Almost taco. But not quite. Thank goodness.

His stomach growled.
The loud kind.
Like a dragon inside a vending machine.

The smell in his room wasn’t helping.

He could smell them.
Perfect tacos.
Everywhere.

So many tacos.
So much hunger.
So much… restraint.

He looked down at one sitting on his desk.

Steamy. Golden. Full of hope.

He lifted it. Slowly.
With his right hand.
Carefully.

"Maybe just one..." he whispered.