The sky was gloomy, lead-gray clouds hanging so low they seemed ready to collapse at any moment. Rain poured down in sheets, pattering furiously against the windowpanes, so dense it sounded as though someone outside were endlessly pouring out beans.
The television was on. The local station's host repeated the news of the typhoon making landfall again and again, his voice somewhat muffled beneath the rain. "Residents are advised not to go outside unnecessarily. Please remain indoors and secure your doors and windows—" The same message played on repeat.
Amon sat on the sofa, looking out the window.
It was past seven. By now, daylight should have been bright, yet outside was as dark as midnight.
The streetlights were still on, their dim yellow halos swaying in the curtain of rain and illuminating countless slanting streams of water. The wind passed between the buildings with a mournful howl, whimpering as though something were crying.
He withdrew his gaze. There was still some rice and grain at home, enough to last several days—so he would not have to brave the downpour and squeeze through the crowds at the nearby supermarket. The television said that more than half the supermarket shelves had already been emptied, with instant noodles selling out the fastest.
He got up and walked into the kitchen, opening the refrigerator. Cold air rushed toward him. There was not much meat left inside. Several rock-hard frozen chunks of pork were crammed into the chilled compartment, beside two cartons of eggs and an opened bag of ham sausages.
He stood before the refrigerator, frowning as he glanced outside. The rain was still falling, with no sign of stopping. He seemed to be calculating how many more meals the remaining ingredients could last.
Then he picked up a knife, cut off a