was that? Not at all, she thought. The snacks were the substance of her past and they said a lot about her. What Margaret Ayinger’s last meal consisted of was not a succulent bounty of lobster tails and asparagus. It wasn’t even the earthy comfort food of a girl brought up on mom’s cooking in a middle class neighborhood. Mashed potatoes, gray, and meatloaf. It was, instead, exactly as she was. Processed, oversweet, devoid of anything wholesome, and undeniably fake.

You are what you eat, she thought, as she piled another spongy death spike into her gullet, forcing herself to chew with a tongue so dry it felt like sandpaper. She might have choked to death right then and been done with it had it not been for a hasty decision to gulp the rest of her incredibly smooth whiskey to so...

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