Magenta juice starts dripping down her arms, to form pools expanding around the columns of her elbows. Her tastebuds seize up as if there is an electrical current going through them, then relax as a gentle sweetness spreads across her tongue.

The texture is soft, almost like a fine chocolate mousse. There’s even a hint of vanilla left behind after the tanginess subsides. She begins to taste salt after a moment, and after another moment, she realizes— the taste is from her own tears.

She lifts her hand to her face, fingers sticky with juice, now wet with her tears. She opens her well-worn backpack, pulls out a compact mirror, and examines the woman looking back at her.

She sees through the caked-on dirt and the dust, the bright wine-red streaks across her cheek, smiles, pokes a cherry-red tongue through her cherry-stained lips, laughs softly.

It’s been 17 years since she’d seen anything resembling fresh food. Whatever this is, it’s most certainly from paradise. She pulls from the plant as much of the bright blue fruit as she can fit in her bag, and takes one more to eat right away. She muses silently, as she twists open another fruit, no one would ever believe her if she tried to describe this taste. No; because she could only describe it as a sensation, really. Something kind of like hope.