I have ten or so pounds of pinto beans in the back of my cupboard.

For a while I thought they would be a relic of the worst pandemic months. Groceries done only once a month. Oatmeal for breakfast, fresh vegetables enough for only a couple weeks — after which it was cowboy beans until I step foot in a Jewel Osco again.

It was like living in a ship. Or roaming around the Great Plains, not a head of bok choy within two days on horseback.

But I knew that I could survive indefinitely. Whenever my mom called to make sure I was eating fine, I could tell her without flinching that I could go on for months without stepping foot outside if I had to. The pinto beans would be there. They won’t spoil, they’ll stay dry, and they’ll keep me nourished. As long as they’re there I’ll be fine.

These days they just stick around like a statue of Jesus some Catholics might keep on their altars, or a pocket statue of Guanyin. As long as they’re there, the werebeasts won’t come and snatch you in your sleep, the elves will leave you alone. Vaguely reassuring, while the world yawns and creaks in the storm.