It was a quiet night. She could hear the gentle soughing of the treetops above, the whistle of the wind as it blew through, draughting ever so slightly through the thin door.

She froze for a moment, listening to the distant calls of nocturnal wildlife, staring into the inscrutable darkness that surrounded her tar-paper shack.

When she was sure there was nobody outside watching, she opened the kitchen cupboard and put her hand inside, feeling for the gap in the fibreboard backing. She put her fingers into the gap and pulled gently. 

The entire panel came away, and she felt for the newspaper-wrapped object hidden behind it, pulling it out onto the benchtop. She unraveled the newspaper as fast and as quietly as she could, revealing the cylindrical gadget within.

She had half an hour at best before the stove in the pack house would need tending again, so every second counted. She was already taking great risks by leaving it unattended. She already had the kettle on the little wood stove next to her boiling away.

The french press had belonged to her father. It was one of the things she had brought along when she had escaped from her old pack; it was the only thing she had left to remember him by.

There was a small white object inside. She fished it out.

Everyone else here drank tea, cheap black tea that came in bricks on the truck that came every month. She couldn't stand how strongly they brewed it, until it was nearly opaque, the colour of mulled wine. Only the Alpha drank coffee, which came from the big machine in the pack house kitchen. The upkeep of which, naturally, was her responsibility.

Every month, she allowed herself to smuggle home one pod.

She gingerly peeled the plastic covering from the pod with callused hands, taking care not to spill any of the precious grounds inside as she tipped it into the press. If so much as a morsel fell out, Beta Irene would sniff it out. She would be dragged into the village square, and she did not want to think too much about what would happen next.

When she had finished brewing, she poured it into the only mug, the one with "Luckiest Teacher In The World" on the side. Another possession that she had taken with her when she had escaped.

It had fallen off a truck which had crashed just down the hill from her old pack; that was why it was chipped. There had been a lot of other things on that truck. Food, washing powder, clothes. They had lived like kings for a while. But the good times never lasted.

She took the steaming cup onto the porch, the floorboards creaking underfoot where the joists had rotted, into the night.

She breathed out. The rest of the pack was fast asleep, snug in their beds. She could enjoy her coffee in peace. But she could never be too sure.