Grace clutched the handlebars of her bike, rolling it next to her as she limped along the side of the dirt path. Warm, sticky blood soaked the bottom of her shirt, but from what Grace could tell, the wound had stopped bleeding freely. It would be smart to stop, but Grace was almost to her destination, and she wanted this job to be over with.

Sure enough, it wasn't long before a large house appeared on the horizon. Impressive from a distance, the sadder it looked as Grace approached. Its paint was chipped, and the roof needed repair in some places. She spotted one or two broken windows, and the once green lawn was now dead and brown, dry pieces of grass blowing away with each breeze.

 Still, it was better than most had.

Grace grabbed her pack off the back of her bike and winced as she climbed the stairs; she didn't think her ankle was broken, or even sprained, but she had landed on it funny right at the end of the job and then walked on it for several more hours. Not fun.

She tapped lightly on the door and took a few steps back. Almost immediately, she heard footsteps coming from inside, and then the click of a lock. The door open slowly as the person on the other side of it cautiously peered out, but when the woman saw Grace standing there, she quickly pulled it open the rest of the way.

"Are you hurt?" The woman seemed shocked at Grace's disheveled appearance, and her eyes flickered to the dark red stain on the hem of Grace's shirt.

Grace pulled her jacket more tightly around her body, the black leather blocking the most obvious signs of injury. "No, Ms. Cantama," she said.

"Well, here, come in," Ms. Cantama said, and she stood back from the door.

Grace stepped inside, taking in a breath of the stuffy, stale air that circulated throughout the house. Ms. Cantama led her into the dining room. "Did you get it?" Ms. Cantama asked, almost breathless.

Grace nodded and put her pack down on the table. Unzipping the main compartment, she pulled out two spools of softy, shiny, pink ribbon.

A wide smile came across Ms. Cantama's face. "Oh, that's perfect!" she exclaimed. "Emily is going to love it! She's been talking about getting ribbon for her hair for so long, and I just thought, well, it's her birthday—"

"You have your side of this agreement, Ms. Cantama," Grace said quietly, cutting off the rambled speech. The older woman had been reaching toward the bag still in Grace's hand as she spoke, but Grace pulled her arm back.

"Of course, dear," Ms. Cantama said. Grace scowled as Ms. Cantama turned around; she hated any type of patronization, but Grace dared not say a word. She couldn't risk not getting paid.

Ms. Cantama rummaged around on top of a cabinet that sat against the wall, and finally pulled out a small package and a large, ziplock bag. "Just as we discussed," she said, laying the items down on the table.

Grace put the bag of ribbon down next to her payment and quickly picked the two items up, shoving them in her pack and then swinging it back over her shoulder.

"You know, you really wouldn't think this would be that hard to find." Grace, one eyebrow arched slightly in disbelief, observed Ms. Cantama take out one of the ribbon spools. "I mean, what practical use would anyone have for this?"

Grace turned a scoff into a cough. The new rich had no idea about supply shortages. It wasn't that pink ribbon specifically was in short supply. It was that everything made in factories was in short supply; it didn't matter what it was.

But Ms. Cantama didn't know that.

"Well, I should get on my way," Grace said. "It was a pleasure doing business with you."

"Likewise," Ms. Cantama said. "And I know where to find you if I ever need something else."

Given that Ms. Cantama was willing to go to such great lengths for pink ribbon, Grace had no doubt that the woman would employ Grace's services again at some point in the future.

"Whose bike is out front?" A man's voice rang into the dining room as the front door opened and shut.

"Grace is back," Ms. Cantama called back.

Mr. Cantama and the couple's daughter, Emily, came into the room.

"And look what we got for you," Ms. Cantama said, kneeling down in front of the seven-year-old.

Emily approached, giving Grace a cautious look, but all suspicious fell away when the girl eyed the pink ribbon. "It's so beautiful," she whispered.

Grace couldn't help but give a small smile. The girl couldn't have been more than four years old when the bombs fell; she probably had no memory of life before.

Hesitantly, but unable to stop herself, Grace shifted her pack off of her back once again and opened it up. She grabbed a second bag and knelt down next to Ms. Cantama. Grace held the bag out to the young girl.

"Here," Grace said. "This will go well with the pink."

Emily's eyes widened even more as her gaze fell on the spool of shiny, sparkly, silver ribbon in the bag. "Really?" she asked.

Grace nodded. "I have no use for it." It wasn't true, but the Cantama's probably didn't know that.

Emily tentatively took the bag, and Grace stood back up. "I'll be going now," she said to the Cantamas. Without another word, she left the room.

Ms. Cantama caught up to her just as Grace grasped the front door handle. "I don't have anything else to pay you," Ms. Cantama said. "For the extra ribbon."

"Like I said," Grace said, not meeting the other woman's eye. "I have no use for it. Consider it a gift."

"Well, then, thank you." Ms. Cantama sounded as though she couldn't figure out if Grace's actions were trustworthy or not. Grace couldn't blame her. Gifts were scarce these days, and gifts from strangers were nearly nonexistent.

"Goodbye, Ms. Cantama." Grace pulled open the door and let it shut behind her before Ms. Cantama had a chance to reply.

Grace inspected the guard now standing on the porch out of the corner of her eye and gave him a curt nod. He must have been out with Mr. Cantama and Emily. The rest of his team were surely around, although well hidden.

The guard gave her a small nod in return. They were both tradespeople, and they respected each other for that.

It didn't matter who they were in their lives before. The guard could have been a student or an engineer, an actor or a CEO of some big company. It didn't matter anymore. Now, just like Grace, he worked in the job that would get him food and essential supplies. In fact, working for the Cantamas was probably a fairly comfortable job.

As Grace wheeled her bike away, still not daring to ride with her injuries, she glanced back at the house. They most likely moved in some time during the past three years. People like the Cantamas were the new upper class, the new elite. The ones who had figured out how to grow food, and a lot of it, were the new rulers. People like the Cantamas could afford to live in a big house because they could afford to have a security staff to guard it.

Without the security staff, well, Grace didn't want to think about what might happen to them. These days, money was useless, but food was everything. The Cantamas supplied food for a number of small villages around their house in exchange for goods and services. The guards protected both the Cantamas house and the villages they supplied.

Grace knew what people were willing to do when they were hungry. The guards were more than necessary.

Grace had a long walk ahead of her; her village was about 10 miles from the Cantama house. Usually, she could complete it in three or four hours, but with her injuries it would probably take her over five. She glanced up at the sun. It would be dark by the time she reached home, but with any luck, she could get off the main road before the sun went down. The road could get dangerous in the dark, but once Grace got close enough to her village, she knew the landscape well enough that she could navigate the rest of the way safely.

Grace stopped about an hour later when she reached a small stream with a rickety, makeshift bridge going across it. Grace didn't dare drink from it, but it was no matter. She had plenty of water left. But Grace slipped off her shoes and socks to soak her feet, and still aching ankle, in the cool water, and opened her pack to inspect the payment from Ms. Cantamas.

She pulled out the plastic bag first. Six Oreos sat, slightly crushed, inside. Grace's mouth began to water right away. While the cookies weren't particularly useful, they were incredibly rare, and Grace hadn't had one in years. Delicately, she pulled one out, broke it into fourths, and popped a piece in her mouth before zipping the bag back up and stowing it away. She would make them last.

Then she pulled out the small package to inspect. Less rare, but far more useful. The unopened bike tire patching kit would be a lifesaver at some point down the road. When not dealing with injuries, Grace rode her bike everywhere, and it was an essential part of her business of finding things for people. When her bike broke for good, it was highly unlikely she would be able to get another one and continue her business.

Begrudgingly, Grace put away her payment, took off her jacket, and pulled up her shirt. She saw her cut wasn't as bad as she thought it was, even if it looked nasty. Grace pulled out the small first aid kit she carried with her and used a portion of her precious water supply to clean it up.

She would never be able to get it completely clean, but it was better than nothing.

When satisfied, she dabbed a small amount of antibiotic ointment on it and then covered it with a bandage. It would hopefully be enough to prevent an infection before she could see a doctor back at her village.

Next, Grace inspected her ankle. It was swollen, but no broken skin and she could walk on it well enough, even if it hurt. She wrapped it in bandages to give herself more support, but Grace suspected it was nothing to actually worry about.

Grace sighed, stood up, and continued on her way. She wished she could ride her bike, then she would be home in only a few hours, but for now, it was best to walk.

She only stopped once during the rest of her walk back. About an hour after the stream, she came across what was once a small city. Even though Grace grew up in California, she had no idea what it was once called—there were hundreds of cities across the state. Some of them remained physically unscathed, but others weren't so lucky.

This city was one of the unlucky ones. Grace wondered if something important was here at one time. After all, why would this city be a target instead of others? Or maybe it just got unlucky.

Either way, the city was empty, and the buildings were all falling apart. Grace paused for just a few moments at a school, giving a respectful moment of silence. She could never bring herself to just walk by a bomb destroyed school. She just couldn't.

Finally, as darkness fell and Grace felt like her legs were about to go numb, she heard the crashing of waves in the distance. A salty sea breeze washed over her, and she closed her eyes, inhaling the sharp scent.

Home was nearby.