"Here we are," Lucas tells me once we step out of the elevator of the business building. "Floor Seventeen, a thrift store. They get most of their stuff through donations, so they sell them a bit cheaper."

I'm not entirely sure what he's expecting here, I've been in a few thrift shops. They're always full of the same things, and this one doesn't seem to be an exception. Through the glass windows set into the shopfront, I can see racks upon racks of clothes. It's dimly-lit, a sign that they can't afford too much lighting, just like most of the lower districts.

"Erm, that's stuff like clothes," I say. "Toys. Books. Maybe movies if someone decided to donate them. Small things. Not more expensive things."

"You'd be surprised," he beckons me to follow, then opens the door to the shop for me. "Come on."

We enter the shop and pass by the registers, where a lone guy in his fifties works. He briefly glances up at us, then returns to reading his book as we continue on our way. Lucas leads me to the back of the thrift shop, where the shelves are, and takes me past the books and toys.

"They put the stuff people buy most towards the front," he says. "Because it makes for a shorter trip for the customer, and most people want in and out and are on pretty restricted budgets. Unlike in the upper districts, where they'll put the goods behind other things in an effort to get people to look at and possibly buy other things. However, when you get to the back… you can find things like this."

He indicates a box sitting on a shelf. It looks like a brand-new box, still with the original seal on it. It's a cooking set, complete with one pot, one saucepan, one deep-walled skillet, and two skillets in different sizes, all with lids to match. It's priced at forty dollars. Beside it are several packs of cooking utensils, plastic, metal, and bamboo alike. Underneath are several boxes of cups or dishware sets of plates and bowls. Some look new, some look like they were repackaged. There are also loose items around. They're all priced rather low for the things, too, even if they're new.

That cooking set, I know for sure sells for five times that at a normal store. I know because I've seen it there.

"Sometimes," he says. "Someone buys two of something, or they buy something and then move in with someone else who has the stuff already, so they donate it. Some people will donate their old dishes when they get new ones, if they do. So you can find brand-new stuff at some thrift stores. Though as a somewhat well-known secret in some circles, there are a few people from the upper districts who'll buy stuff specifically to donate to second-hand shops in the lower districts, just to help people out."

"That's… surprising," I say. "Though I'm not sure how to get this stuff home. Or even up to the register."

"Leave it to me," he tells me. "Just stay here a few minutes."

Lucas leaves, and I mean leaves. He exits the shop. About ten minutes later, though, he returns. This time, he has a red collapsible wagon with him.

"It's sold for sixty in the shop on the next floor down," he tells me. "That's the normal price, though, not a discounted one. You can pay me back by following the schedule I set for you and doing your best to eat the meal plan I set up for you."

He really doesn't need to do all of this. Is he this nice to everyone? Is part of the reason he took on the second job so that he could afford to do things like this to clients from the center who need a little help? Whether it's that or just a special case with me, it's still incredibly nice of him, and I'm not sure how to respond, so I say the only thing that comes to mind.

"Uh… thanks."

"No problem," he says. "We're buying you an entire kitchen set for under a hundred. We'll even get you some containers to store leftovers in."

Lucas picks out everything for me. In addition to the standard stuff, he adds a slow-cooker and a toaster, too, arranging the boxes all on the wagon, then pulling it to the front. The total comes out to be only eighty dollars, when I know it should cost four times this much if bought at full-price.

Why have I never gone to the very back of a thrift store before? Probably because I figured it was just the same stuff as before it and I've never really had need of all the extras, anyway. Heck, this is going to be my first time attempting to cook since my parents died.

His recipes better be pretty specific on what to do.

Lucas and I take the stuff back to my apartment and has me pull everything out of the wagon, setting them on the floor against the wall by the door.

"You'll need to wash everything," he tells me. "Before putting them away. Do you have dish towels and washcloths?"

"Yeah," I answer, realizing none of them are out. "I just washed those yesterday, and haven't, ah, needed them yet, so they're all in the drawers there."

I indicate the two bottom drawers of the set of them under the kitchen counter, and Lucas nods slightly.

"That's good, then," he says. "Come on, let's head to the grocery store. And we're taking the wagon, it'll make bringing the purchases back a bit more comfortable, since we're getting more than a couple of boxes of instant-ramen bowls."

My face heats up at his comment, and I just mumble an agreement and follow him out. It didn't come off malicious, just matter-of-fact, so I don't think he meant it as a poke at me. This really has been all I've been able to afford, beyond that one apple a week, for the last four years. Heck, there are times where I go without food for a couple of days.

The quart of milk in the fridge was me splurging because I really wanted some milk and hadn't had any for a year, and it was on discount last time I went shopping.

Lucas and I walk down to the business building around the corner, the one which houses the grocery store I use, and he folds up the wagon and tucks it onto the bottom of the cart he pulls out. The next thing he does is walk around the shop, assessing what's here and taking nothing.

After the first trip through the store, he begins pulling items off the shelves. Everything is so expensive compared to what I can normally buy, and it's making me cringe knowing how much money I'm going to be spending. He just put a twenty-dollar pack of fresh chicken in the cart. That's only seven breasts, and it's supposed to be used within a few days, too.

He just put a second one in the cart. Then a third.

What kind of fantasy world is he living in? There's no way I can eat that much that fast.

"Uh, Lucas?"

"You'll see what's going on," he says. "Just be patient."

It takes another forty minutes before Lucas finishes picking out the groceries, and the end result is nearly three hundred dollars. That's… most of my food budget, and I'm not sure this is going to last me until I get paid again.

"Don't look so worried," Lucas tells me. "A lot of what we got are staples – things that you keep in the kitchen and use again and again. Salt, sugar, flour, seasonings, and other stuff like that. Three dollars for a thing of salt, and it should last you months. Even if you don't get the job, you'll still have stuff to make some things with, if you manage to get a little extra money from time to time to buy the rest of the ingredients. Staples tend to be versatile things, too – used in many different dishes."

"O-okay."

I pay the cashier, then we load the purchases into the brown paper bags, set them in the wagon after Lucas unfolds it, then bring them to my apartment. He helps me put everything away, then tells me we're going out again.

"Again?" I ask as I fold up the paper bags for reuse. Since I have them, I'll use them when I go shopping again and will keep doing so until they're used up and need recycling or composting. "It's already getting late, and this has taken up so much of your time, Lucas, and-"

"Just a few more things," he tells me. "From another store. More stuff for the meals. And I don't mind taking the extra time, Kieran. To be honest, I'm enjoying hanging out and helping you. And if this causes an issue in your budget by the end of the month, I'll take responsibility and set you up with something temporarily to earn you a little extra so you can afford your bills. If that's okay with you."

He's enjoying this? Even though it's all business?

"Um, yeah, that'd be nice," I say. "If-if it's needed. I don't want to impose too much."

"Then come on," he says. "Let's go."

This time, he leads me to a store higher up in the same building as the grocery store I shop at. This one seems to be a bulk purchase store, and the first thing that Lucas gets is a twenty-pound sack of rice.

"The wagon is rated to about two hundred or so pounds," he tells me as he lays the sack flat on it. "But you still want to distribute the weight evenly to avoid breaking it from an imbalance. The rating is assuming the weight is spread evenly."

"Okay," I eye the sack of rice as he adds a second to it. "That's fifty dollars, Lucas. We're now almost completely having used up my food budget."

"I know," he says. "Like I said, I'll take responsibility and set you up with something temp at the end of the month if you need it, as long as you aren't forcing it for that. Not to be blunt, but you're skinny as heck and if you're training every day, you need to eat better."

"Do you really think I'll go through forty pounds of rice in a month?" I ask. "Doesn't rice-"

"Basically triple in volume when cooked?" He asks. "Yep. This is mostly to ensure you have it for awhile. Several of the recipes I'm giving you will use rice. If you're in a pinch for money, you can add some cheap things to it for a little bit of flavor. It's basically the same as ramen in that sense – but cheaper since you aren't buying the premade stuff. And speaking of ramen, come on."

He leads me to another aisle… where bulk packs of ramen are sold. It would be cheaper for me to buy them here than downstairs. Thirty-two cents a cup rather than thirty-eight. I've never come up to this store because I figured I'd never use the bulk-buy stuff before it expired and that I wouldn't be able to afford it, anyway.

The difference on the ramen boxes isn't enough to over-budget me. While the difference of six cents a pack doesn't seem like much, it adds up over time, especially for someone carefully watching their budget and only rarely splurging on a single, cheap thing that's on discount and actually provides some nutrition.

Looking at my consumption of two packs a day, that's twelve cents in a day. Thirty-six in three. That's a whole extra pack every three days, or about two and a half a week.

It's not much, but it's enough that I could have missed meals a little less often. This is twice now that Lucas has shown me something that could possibly have benefited me. While the dishes one probably wouldn't have mattered, this one definitely would have. If the job falls through, I'll at least know I can save a few cents a meal that's not breakfast.

"Uh, Lucas?" I realize he's loading a box of ramen into the wagon. "I thought we were going away from the ramen?"

"These aren't the flavored ones," he shows me the box. "It's a box of just noodles, portioned to individual servings. They're a little thicker than the ones you're used to, and they don't come with seasoning pops. I factored in your norm and am keeping some of the ramen so you at least have something familiar. But it won't be too familiar. You're changing it up."

That doesn't sound like a good thing to me.

Lucas takes me to the refrigerated section and loads a double-pack of eighteen-count eggs, and why I need three dozen eggs confuses me. Then he adds a second pack, confusing me even further. Two packs of four sticks of butter each are added, then he goes through the fruits and veggies here, too, picking out a few more things.

My total reaches a hundred this time, leaving me with very little for extra food budget for the rest of the month until I find out about the job. I won't really be able to buy stuff again unless I work some more. While I appreciate Lucas's offer, I think I'll definitely continue using the agency just in case that doesn't work out.

I really don't look forward to updating my agent that I'm not available after a certain time due to other obligations. I'll probably get a lecture from the agent I'm working with, she really likes to go off on people for anything that could possibly hinder their chances at getting a job. It's frustrating.

If I do become a Sivalshi Guardian, though, I can confidently tell her to stuff it without worrying about risking getting fewer jobs.

Lucas walks with me back to the house and unload the purchases, putting the cold stuff in the fridge.

"Before I go," he pulls off his hoodie and walks it over to the coffee table. "Let's get these dishes cleaned."

"But-"

"I'm not leaving until a certain thing's done," he tells me as he walks back into the kitchen and opens up the drawers with the dish towels and washcloths. "And that needs certain dishes cleaned. I'm not going to tell you what they are in order to ensure everything gets washed. I'll wash, you dry and put things away."

He pulls out a dish towel and tosses it to me, then spreads a few of them out on the counter before grabbing a washcloth and closing both drawers. Deciding to just go with it because he seems a pretty good guy who's just a bit concerned for my health, I follow along.

Washing all of the dishes together takes us about an hour and a half, mostly because it's not a small amount and we're washing everything, not just what was used for dinner or whatever. I can expect my water and sewer bill to go up a little for this month. And my electric bill, since I'm apparently going to be cooking more in order to actually benefit from my training.

"Alright," I say. "Everything's washed. What's next?"

"Remember those shallow, rectangular plastic containers I got from the thrift store?" He asks. "Not the longer and wider ones, but the shorter and narrower ones?"

"Yeah."

"Grab them."

I do as he gets into the fridge, and he pulls out all three packs of chicken, unsealing the packs and using tongs to move the breasts into the containers, one per each. The breasts fit pretty nicely. Not squished in, but not with much extra space. Once he finishes, he disposes of the packaging, then washes the tongs and his hands after telling me to seal the containers.

"Anytime you touch raw meat," he says. "Wash your hands. Wash anything that comes into contact with raw meat, too. I bought some cleaners, if you didn't notice. Use those for the counter. Raw meat can spread contagions that can make you extremely sick. Never, ever use things that touched raw meat on other things – so don't use tongs you used on raw chicken to toss your salads. Cross-contamination is a nasty thing."

"Okay," I say. "I'll try to keep that in mind."

"I'll add it to the notes of the recipe book," he mutters.

That's really appreciated, but I'm not going to say that. I do have a question, though, because something doesn't make sense.