Ron Trumbull spent an uneasy night in the cabin. The door, which no longer latched, kept banging open in the wind until he moved an end table in front of it to hold it shut. His subtly enlarged body was just too long for the bed, the mattress of which was too thin to shield his bulk from the metal frame.
He gave up on slept on the floor of the living room like a goddamn animal. The cold did not bother him, but hunger gnawed in his stomach. He was supposed to be beyond that! Instead, he felt hungrier than he’d ever been, and in the middle of the night he got up to address his stomach.
The cabin’s cupboards held some food: a jar of dried rice, a box of instant potatoes, and canned soups, beans, fruits, and vegetables. He ate as much as he could stand cold, then started cooking the rest for himself, starting with the beans.
Heating them up in a saucepan on the stove wasn’t that different from doing it over a fire, he told himself, but he couldn’t quite believe it.
I was supposed to have the power of the gods, now I’m turning into a goddamn metrosexual.
The beans were good. The soup he tried was not nearly filling enough. The potatoes looked promising—potatoes were real food—but there were instructions to follow and he hadn’t come this far to have a goddamn piece of cardboard tell him what to do. He wound up eating the flakes like cereal. It was the same caloric density either way, right? The dry rice went the same way. It all felt like a brick in his stomach. He was no longer hungry, exactly, but nor was he satisfied.
The freak better show her ass soon, he thought as he settled back down. If he had to leave the cabin to steal food, his odds of discovery shot up.