The next few are easy; a sad pint of oat-milk ice cream, lumpy bags of frozen vegetables, a brick of tempeh old enough that it probably wasn't good to begin with. There is, actually, not that much in the long run; a few smaller things that will need to thaw some, and the ice cube trays are probably salvageable with a wash.

She's not much of a cook, which is turning out to be advantageous. Leaving the freezer open, she starts in on the fridge-- soggy bags of salad sludge, an alarmingly puffy carton of milk, a few jars and tubs of condiments.

It's not like she's ever been much of a cook; it can't come as a surprise, how sparse things are here. Maybe having him here with her will mean more meals at home; that would probably be a good change.

"I think that's the worst of it-- I should defrost it and bleach the shelves." And then they can restock. She steps back, opens a cabinet; takes out something that might, once, have been a loaf of bread, dropping it gingerly into the trash.

"Much easier with a second pair of hands."