[Food>=0] They stared at what little food they had left

Noah knelt beside the battered pantry, his brow furrowed as he counted the remaining cans and dry goods. The meager pile barely took up the corner of a single shelf, a glaring reminder of what they'd lost in the fire.

“This is it?” Greg asked, leaning over Noah’s shoulder. His tone was sharp, but there was a flicker of concern in his usually smug demeanor.

Olivia stood at the doorway, her bandaged arm hanging at her side, her face etched with guilt. “We’ll make it last,” she murmured, though her voice lacked conviction.

Greg let out a short, bitter laugh. “For how long? A week? Two, if we skip meals?”

Noah pushed himself to his feet, glaring at Greg. “We’ll make it work,” he said firmly. “We have to."

As the three of them stared down at the dwindling supplies, an oppressive silence filled the room. Olivia shifted closer to Noah, resting her good hand on his arm. He covered it with his own, giving it a reassuring squeeze, but his mind was already racing. They needed a plan. They needed food. And they were running out of time.