Caelwyn:
Nobody argues about dates anymore.

Not really.

They argue about time all the same.

Stacy:
Just not which time.

She sets the pencil down, sharper than it needs to be.

Stacy:
They argue about who gets it.

Before the war, people said they were running out of time.
They meant patience. Comfort. Attention.

Now they mean food spoiling.
Wounds closing badly.
Weather windows slamming shut.

Caelwyn:
Time didn’t just break after the bombs.

Stacy:
It became scarce.

And scarce things turn dangerous.

Lists replace calendars.
Hours replace years.
Survival compresses everything.

Caelwyn:
We used to plan decades.

Stacy:
Now we negotiate afternoons.

That changes people.

When time was abundant, delay was mercy.
You could wait. Recover. Think.

When time is scarce, delay becomes a sentence.

Caelwyn:
So time turns into power.

Stacy:
It always was.
But now it’s visible.

Who can afford to rest.
Who can heal.
Who must keep moving even when their body says no.

And who gets left behind because “there wasn’t time.”

Caelwyn:
That phrase explains too much.

Stacy:
It justifies everything.

Including cruelty.

Years used to mean growth.
Accumulation. Progress.

Now they’re remembered by losses.

The year the convoys didn’t return.
The year the cold came early.
The year you stopped counting names.

Caelwyn:
Time doesn’t just wound.

Stacy:
It pressures.

And pressure doesn’t create cracks.

It reveals them.

That’s what time does now in the wasteland.
It decides who gets a future by deciding who gets enough minutes.

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This is where survival stops being abstract.