Betsy VanderBerg

“I think ghosts are the least of our worries,” I answer. “Starvation and dehydration are a little more fucking concerning.” “Well, which is worse? Dying of hunger or dying of scary ghosts?” she volleys back. “Which is quicker?” She nods. “Okay, you got me there. May the bean gods bless us then.” “The what?” I snap, my annoyance deepening. Even shipwrecked, she can’t stop fucking talking. “The bean gods,” she repeats, reaching the last step and coming up to a cement pathway. “Canned beans survive the apocalypse. They’re always the number one thing left in cabinets after the world ends. So, I imagine they’ll be in this abandoned lighthouse that potentially hasn’t seen life since the dinosaurs.” “There is so much wrong with what you just said.” Ignoring me, she shoots me a look over her shoulder. “Be careful, though. The beans will give you flatulence.”
― H.D. Carlton, Does It Hurt?