He crossed to the drawer bank instead, forcing himself to think. The drawers were labeled by category and date. CLIMATE RESPONSE EDUCATION. CIVIC CONTINUITY. DOMESTIC READINESS. Below those, one smaller set carried simple icon marks instead of words. Flame. Hook. Strap. He hooked the bent placard support into the seam of the flame drawer and pulled until the muscles in his forearm began to shake. The drawer moved half an inch, jammed, then slid with a scream of metal that echoed through the room.

Inside, under molded foam and brittle straps, lay three emergency ignition kits in display mounts. One was gone. One had rotted. One still held a sealed paper box with a striker strip under yellowed film. Matches.

For one stupid second he just stared.

Then he reached in too fast. The edge of the cracked inner cover snapped under his hand and bit into his palm. Sharp pain flashed. He jerked back on instinct, blood welling at once across the heel of his hand. It dripped onto the drawer lip, bright and fresh in the dim room.

He stood very still, breathing through his nose, looking at the blood as if it belonged to somebody less foolish.

"Well done," he muttered.

He wrapped the cut with a strip torn from the loose pale cloth at his waist, knotting it clumsily one-handed. Hunger and fatigue had made him careless. Not just tired—careless, the more dangerous thing. He waited until the sting settled, then used the broken tile chip like a scraper to peel the plastic film from the matchbox. Forty? Perhaps less. Enough to matter. Enough to lose if he grew stupid again.