Last Supper
- Jeremy Fisher
- Apr 7
- 6 min read
The room we’re staying in doesn’t have any heat, and the broken window panes are less than ideal. We’ve stuffed t-shirts into the holes, but the insulation properties of a t-shirt aren’t exactly up to the task. It’s -15 degrees outside and somehow it feels even colder in the room where we sleep. The room is filled with hastily built bunk beds, using whatever lumber was readily available when the place was being prepared to house military. A solitary electric heater sits in the center of the room, it’s power indicator light practically laughing at us for thinking it can make a difference. It is tiny. Could fit in the palm of my hand. It might be able to create a noticeable increase of temperature inside of an insulated hallway bathroom. This room is large enough for the ten sets of bunkbeds that it contains. The heater doesn’t even feel warm if you hold it to your face. Which we have tried. My teammate and I are trying to sneak out of the house unnoticed, but our attempt fails when we’re confronted by one of our hosts in the hallway ...