There were five recycled plastic containers, carefully labeled with a permanent marker: Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday. Inside were the cold, rationed leftovers that Carmelita managed to salvage.
“Who’s organizing this?” Arturo asked, with a lump in his throat.
“Me, sir,” replied Lupita, Carmelita’s eldest daughter. She was only 8 years old, but had the gaze of a grown woman. “That way we make sure the chicken lasts until Friday and doesn’t spoil.”
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