Currency

The currency collapsed on Tuesday. By Wednesday, she was baking.

“Two loaves for a generator repair,” she called from the abandoned storefront.

The hedge fund manager approached, gold coin trembling in his palm. His stomach growled.

“What’s the exchange rate?” he asked.

She handed him a warm roll. “On the house. Tomorrow, you learn to bake.”

The revolution smelled like yeast. All the prepping in the world couldn’t prepare for the one thing that mattered—knowing how to feed people.