There's never actually cake, she signs, with a surprisingly bitter sigh. Usually it's a goddamn incinerator instead.

Then she snorts, turns to the freezer case, and rummages for a carton of ice cream to hold out to Wrench.

There you go. You don't even need to turn on the stove for it.

And this seems to have finally gotten her back to herself, enough to grab some frozen TV dinners out and drop them into her cart. That should keep her from starving to death.

The town might not want us here, but someone must, she continues. Unless we're just falling through wormholes or something.