Ezra held the dented peach can like it was gold.
"You sure about this?" His sister Naya was already reaching for the can opener. "We could just—"
"No." He gripped the can harder against his chest. "Not yet."
She gave him the look. The one where he was being dramatic again. But Naya didn't get it. She hadn't been there when Dad spent the remainder of his savings account at the supermarket, buying whatever cans were on discount. Hadn't witnessed him piling them in the basement like some kind of shield against the coming horrors.
That was three months ago. Before the plant got slammed with the layoffs. Before Mom started working double shifts at the diner just to pay the bills.
"Ez, come on. It's just peaches."
"It's not just—" He snapped himself. That wasn't either. "Look, we still have that leftover rice from yesterday. And there's a half a loaf of bread."
Naya fell on the couch, which creaked as though it was going to cave in. "Rice again? No kidding?"
"Better than nothing."
The thing was, Ezra had been keeping count. Not that he'd wanted to, but that someone had to. Seventeen cans still down in the basement. Mostly vegetables that nobody really wanted and some store-brand soup that tasted like cardboard. But the peaches. those were a different story. Dad had picked them out on purpose, said they were special occasion.
Problem was, they'd saved them so long Ezra wasn't even sure what was considered special anymore.
"Remember when Dad used to make pancakes on Sundays?" Naya was looking up at the ceiling now. "With those fancy blueberries they picked up at the farmer's market?"
"Uh-huh." Ezra set the can down on the coffee table, not wishing to bang it against the wood. "Uh-huh, yeah. Remember."
"Do you think he'll do that again? When times are better?"
Ezra didn't answer because he didn't have any clue what to say. Mom kept going and going about when Dad came back to work again, but the resumes weren't being answered and the interviews weren't being arranged. Meanwhile the bills continued to arrive and the groceries continued to run out and Ezra continued to count cans like some kind of madman.
The front door shut and Mom's voice floated from the kitchen. "Kids? You eat yet?"
"We're good," Naya called back, but she was looking at Ezra when she said it.
Mom appeared in the doorway still wearing her diner uniform, smelling of coffee and french fry grease. She was more tired than normal, and that was considering everything.
"What's this?" She pointed at the can.
"Dessert," Ezra said quickly. "For later."
Mom's face did something complex. As if she wished to smile but wasn't sure that she ought. "Honey, you don't need to—"
"I know." But someone did. Someone had to look ahead, see tomorrow and next week and the one following. Someone had to be there to make sure they didn't run out entirely.
"Your dad called," Mom said, sitting in the armchair that used to be Dad's, before he spent all day in the basement, hunched over job applications. "Has another interview lined up. Thursday morning."
"That's great," Naya said, but she didn't sound excited.
"It is good." Mom's voice cut like a razor. "Things are gonna turn around. You'll see."
Ezra shook his head because that's what you did. But he also thought about the seventeen cans and how they would dwindle to sixteen and fifteen and fourteen and thirteen and so forth until there were no more. Math didn't have an answer to optimism.
When Mom vanished upstairs to shower, Naya picked up the can again.
"Come on, Ez. I'm starving and that rice isn't gonna feed anyone."
"We can't just eat anything whenever we want it," he said. "That's not the way it works."
"How what works?"
"Surviving." The word slipped out too harshly. "We have to make things last."
Naya was quiet for a minute. Then she spoke up, "You sound like Grandpa Joe."
Ezra's grandfather had lived through the Depression. Heard to recount stories of stretching one chicken out for a week, of darning socks till thread was bigger than sock. Of going to bed hungry so that there'd be something for breakfast.
"Maybe that's not so bad," Ezra said.
But while he talked, he was thinking about Dad in the basement, staring at those cans like they were somehow a failure. Like having saved them was an indication that he'd already lost something significant.
"What if we just. had a little?" Naya's tone was smaller now. "Just a few pieces?"
Ezra glared at the can. At his sister. Through the memories of Dad's stories of when he was growing up, of his own father coming home from the factory with callused hands and always-empty lunch pail at the end of the workday.
"Okay," he said after a moment. "But just a little."
Naya's face lit up like Christmas morning. She was already headed for the kitchen before Ezra called out to her.
"But we save half. Deal?"
"Deal."
The peaches were sweeter than he'd remembered. Sweet and soft and with the flavor of summer even though it was mid-February and the air conditioning barely worked. They ate them slowly, enjoyed each mouthful. Saving the syrup for last.
An hour later, when Dad came upstairs from the basement, Ezra was washing the can in the sink.
"What's that?" Dad asked.
"Found some peaches," Ezra said. "Saved you half."
Dad looked at the can, then out at Ezra. Something passed between them that didn't need words. Understanding, maybe. Or simple exhaustion.
"Thanks, son."
That night, in bed, Ezra could hear his parents' discussion through thin walls. Mom's voice hopeful, Dad's hesitant. Planning and worrying and attempting to make all things stretch a bit further.
Sixteen cans left now. But for some reason, that sounded enough.
At least for today.
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