I crumble six crackers into the bowl. Six crackers per ladle, just like Mom used to make.
Steam rises off the red liquid as I pour it. A stray drip hits my glove. I wipe it on my blanket.
I carry my bowl to the sofa and peek outside, trading heat for daylight. Snow covers the ruins. Brisk air blows through the broken pane.
I drop the window covering and hold my bowl near my face. The warmth and smell take me back. Laughter echoes in my memory.
Shaking, I take a spoonful.
Just like Mom used to make.