Coins cascade into the parking meter. The dial spins. Half an hour in the oxy tank will flush the toxins. Post-nuclear air digests slowly to death, but not if you can pay. My child mews gently at my breast. I have to get in. The guard nods. My turn.
Cold air pours into my stale lungs and I gulp, goldfish-like. Make it last. Savour it. The taste of it, strange like an odd metal. Sort of like… I cry out. Contaminated! My infant son shrieks as his soft palate disintegrates. The guard stares. The dial drops.