His stomach growled as Elliot flipped through his recipe books, savouring each picture and recalling the taste of each dish. It was torture, he knew. The ingredients were long gone and it was hard enough to get food without mould on it let alone ingredients for a peach souffle. He sighed and closed the book, slipping it back under the 'bed' - which was just the lounges from the dining area pushed together - with all his other belongings. He pulled his bag out and emptied the contents - which were singular in the form of a mouldy potato.

Elliot smacked his tongue against the roof of his mouth - he was parched but it wasn't as bad as his hunger. The mould was minimal - a little fuzz here and there. He reached around under his bed and pulled out his knife kit - only brought out on special occasions and never in the company of others lest it fall into the wrong hands. The smallest knife - the paring knife - wasn't one he used often but it would get the job done. Carefully, so as to keep as much of the edible part as possible, he peeled away the skin and the mould. He diced it, sprinkled it with a pinch of salt and pepper he'd managed to hide and presented it nicely on a porcelain plate with a tiny chip in it. In his mind, it was a succulent lamb rump marinated with Moroccan spices. A swirl artichoke puree, sauteed broad beans, his favourite goat's cheese and finished off with a creamy sun-dried tomato sauce.

"Bon apetite," he muttered.

He ate it slowly - piece by piece allowing his stomach time in between to adjust to having food. It was earthy, hard and at current the most delicious thing he had eaten in a few days. There was that squished, half-melted chocolate bar of indiscernible brand and flavour but he had traded that in exchange for something to drink. When he was finished, he was not above licking the plate, making sure he ate every bit of salt and pepper he'd used.

Seven days then it would all be over and the world could go back to normal and farmers could go back to breeding and he could go back to eating and making real food. He could reopen his restaurant - after some much needed touch ups, of course - and then he could hear the sound of knives against plates, of chewing, of pleasant conversation and compliments. He wouldn't even care if he had to work every day of the week again - sacrifice his weekends. It would be worth it.

His stomach grumbled. It was a wonderful dream but he wasn't sure if he would even live to see it fulfilled.