Submitted for the September 2025 prompt: Terrestrial Settings

We sat on our porch that night, the sun blazing like a torch, and I told Pa I’d taken a job at the KFH. “We need money. Simple as that.”

 

He wheeled forward, lifted the cane on his lap, and swiped at me. “No son of mine is gonna work at a greasy fast food joint. You’re a farmer, like me.”

 

“Our farm’s for crap, Pa. Can’t grow without rain. Two inches in the past year.”

 

“Don’t care. It’s disgusting, what they serve there.”

 

I stared out past our scorched fields to the vacant highway, asphalt simmering. Beyond that lay what was left of Chicago, a crumbled skyline poking through the constant reddish-brown mist. “Can’t plant, Pa. The ground is hard as concrete. Ain’t no farming to be done.” I didn't remind him that all four cows up and died of starvation in the past six months. So thin we only got one good dinner out of each.

 

“Always excuses, Henry.” He twirled the cane like a baton. “You just don’t wanna work hard.”

 

Pa wasn’t the same after Ma ran off with Ernest Skithers ten years ago, right after the earth shifted its axis. Lots of people changed after that. Can’t blame them, with daylight lasting 21 hours in this hemisphere. Ma said the world was hot but Ernest was hotter. Off she went, taking just one suitcase and her brandy flask. I was 14. She asked me to join them, but I felt bad for Pa.

 

Bad choice. Pa turned ugly and bitter. Not that he was a river of happiness prior, but he got worse when the sunrot set in and shriveled his legs. Now he used the wheelchair all the time, though he held onto that cane like an heirloom.

 

I sighed. It was one of those nights when I really missed the stars. “I’m starting tomorrow, Pa. Be grateful.”

 

He spat, swiped the cane for good measure, and wheeled into the shack.

 

* * *

 

“When we say we don’t use radiated meat, we mean it,” Julius explained as he demonstrated the griddle. “That’s why we can charge so much.”

 

It was my first day, and Julius was my trainer. I had biked downtown to the KFH, which was a few blocks from where that old Willis Tower once stood. Only about a dozen floors still held, roofless and rusted. Further east lay the dried-up Lake Michigan, its winds — which once made Chicago the Windy City — now just whispers.

 

“Where do they get the meat?” I asked.

 

“They breed stock on a farm in Urbana.” Julius grinned, leaned in, and whispered: “So you know, they pay top dollar if you bring live ones in, long as they ain't radiated. I’ve done that twice. Made a tidy sum.”

 

Julius handed me my uniform, complete with the Colonel Sanders shoulder patch. An hour later, I was working the sandwich line, slapping breaded patties on buns, then passing them on to the next guy, who added synthetic tomato and lettuce, a squirt of sauce, and a pickle.

 

For the next four days, I worked until midnight, most of the time at the front counter. At times I wondered what would happen if Ma showed up. Maybe she’d recognize me.

 

One day a customer did remember me: Felicity Handler, who I’d dated in high school. “Henry! You give up the farm?” She wore an eye patch and her hair was falling out, leaving bald spots past her temples. She had ditched me for Cyrus Digby, who died of the rot after graduation. Maybe she was free now.

 

“Can’t grow nothing in parched earth.”

 

“True enough. Give me a box of tenders, extra crispy, and some fries. How’s your Pa doing? He was always sweet to me.”

 

“Doing just fine.”

 

“Good.” She smiled as I handed her the bag. “Tell him I send my best.”

 

Each night, after closing, I rode my bike home and walked in, sweating, to find Pa up and cursing. And each time, he lunged at me, whalloping my legs and sides with his cane. “That place is revolting! Finger lickin' good, my ass. You're disowned, you hear me? Disowned!”

 

I clenched my fists to strike him, but turned and went to the porch. After inspecting my bruises, I sat, waiting for those few hours of true nighttime, of stars, so I could doze.

 

* * *

 

I got paid after my second week, so I splurged and brought Pa home a six-pack. He hadn’t had a beer in months. I reasoned some cold ones would change his attitude.

 

No such luck. He was even angrier. “Get out of here with that. Bought with blood money, that was!” He rammed his wheelchair into my knees. The beers went flying and I tumbled down the stairs.

 

My neck and back throbbed. Beer streamed down the stairs. “Shouldn’t have done that, Pa.”

 

He grinned. “You’re scum, Henry. Just like your ma.”

 

In that moment, I knew what to do. It was a long time coming. I went to the shed, grabbed some PVC ties, then bound Pa’s hands behind him and carried him out to the pickup. He spat and cursed.

 

Fortunately, I had just enough gas to get to Urbana. Pa thrashed around some, but eventually quieted and fell asleep.

 

At the farm, the manager studied Pa for a few minutes, then ran the rad detector over him. “Numbers look clean. I’ll give you $250.”

 

I scowled. “How’s $300?”

 

“Not with those shriveled-up thighs and drumsticks. $275, that’s it.” He counted out the bills.

 

Later I gassed up the truck, then drove back to Chi-town and treated myself to some deep-dish pizza. Downed the whole thing and passed out.

 

When I woke it was dark and mercifully quiet, and I could see the stars.

 

* * *

 

A week later, I was working the register when Felicity sauntered in.

 

“How’s the old man doing?” She looked fine despite the bald spots.

 

“He’s real good.” I handed over her order and winked. “This one’s on me, Felicity. Extra crispy.”