As the sunlight waned, Contessa started a small fire and fashioned a crude lean-to from duct tape and discarded boxes.
She captured a groundhog, skinned it, and roasted it on a spit, trying to prepare herself for the long, cold night ahead.
When the sun finally disappeared over the horizon, she was still hunched awkwardly over the apparatus, driving in screw after tiny screw, as the capitalist fat cats sat and watched.