“Lucy & Ida at the End Times” by William Morris

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Lucy is scanning the line at the storehouse on the look out for irregularities. The old man with the cart full of old electronics, several heads of cabbage, and two sacks of potatoes pulls his faith, hope, and charity chits from the Faraday pouch he wears on a braided leather strap around his neck. Only the charity one is glowing in her headset and only faintly at that. Not even enough for a head of cabbage or a small spool of copper wire. Bishop has made it clear he doesn't want to be bothered with such cases. Toss them the standard ration pack, move them on, send the cart back to inventory control. But the combination of items in this guy's cart gives her pause. 

Maybe this guy knows something. 

Something useful. 

Ida is sitting in the front parlor watching a feed of two men in dark, worn suits walking down the long drive. She isn't sure and none of the sensors are sure if they come in peace or contention. 

It feels like they have been walking towards the house for hours. 

Maybe they have been. 

Ida loses track of time at times.

She resumes her prayers, the fervor in her voice a rushing of waters. 

Her hope chit glows bright as a diamond in the noonday sun. 

Lucy follows the policy to the letter of the law and feels no guilt over it. This is how the last days are: mercy only extends to basic survival. To go further is to take from the communal, from those who can and will do more, who, when granted resources, enlarge rather than hollow out. 

The old man makes no complaint. He has the chits, which means he's no gentile, and so he knows, and everyone can see, he's done nothing to fill them. 

He takes his ration and goes. 

Lucy must enforce the letter of the law, but she is allowed promptings. Finding a huge stash of working actuators three years ago gave her that calling as does her connection to Ida even if the bishops disagree. 

She runs out after the guy.

"Hey," she says. 

The old man slows and turns.

"Sorry I couldn't give you that stuff."

"It's okay," he says. "I know how this works."

"What did you want them for?"

"Want what?"

"The components."

The old man shrugs. "Oh, you know. This and that." 

"Can you be more specific?"

"Don't know that I want to."

"You're one of us. If you have the skill to help, you should."

"Don't know that I can."

"All right. Be seeing you, then."

"Maybe so." 

The old man winks, but as he turns to walk away, he mutters, "Probably not."

This is how Ida prays:

She prays for the prophets, angels, scrappers, bishops, presidents, pilots, healers, alchemists, and avengers.

She prays for those holding strong and for those barely holding out and also for those who have succumbed. 

She prays for her defense perimeter, for the fences and the sensors and the mesh network and the turrets and autonoms.

She prays for the two men making their way up the long drive. 

She prays for Lucy where'er she may currently be.  

She prays for the second coming but prays for it to not arrive until the work is truly done. 

She prays for her faith to remain strong, for her hope to not waver, and for her bowels to be filled with charity. 

Most of all she prays for the power of heaven to descend as constant and heavy as the summer rains.

Lucy is worried the old man won't come back for more rations. They see it all the time at the storehouse. Mostly among the older generation, mostly among the men: too proud, too self-reliant, too fearful or unwilling or set in their ways to do the simple things that charge their chits. 

On a shift off, she tracks him down. 

It's not hard. 

The official policy is to leave people alone and their tech has protocols installed to enforce that. But her headset isn't like the others. Ida has seen to that. 

A prayer or two and a few sniffs of various gray networks, and she finds him bunkered in the warehouse of an abandoned auto parts distributor. She approaches the loading dock all slow caution and words of honey to his meager defenses, wisping through them like smoke blown through a hive. 

"What do you want," he spits out as she strolls into view. 

"We need your help," she says, both arms raised to the square.

"I don't need yours."

"You could do good for this world."

"The world I care about is gone."

"It's not gone. It's dispersed."

"Dispersed and barely hanging on. Just like me. Just like all of us."

"You could help us hang on better, stronger. I figured out what you wanted the parts for."

"It wouldn't have worked anyway."

"It wouldn't have worked the way you wanted to do it. It will work if you combine it with our technologies."

"With these?" he snarls, pulls the pouch from his neck, the cord snapping at the back of his neck, and tosses it to the floor.

"Yes," she says, picking up the pouch and opening it to view the chits inside. All three of them are glowing faintly now. 

"Oh," she says. "It looks like you've already gotten started within the limits of what you have. How about we work together and take your ideas to a new level?"

The old man bows his head. 

He has lost, and he cannot deny it. 

Maybe even doesn't want to. 

When the two men finally arrive, Ida is nowhere to be found, but she has left a gift behind for them: a hope chit that glows brighter than a diamond in the noonday sun. 

It's even more than they could have hoped for. It will be put to good use.

This piece was published in 2026 as part of the 15th Annual Mormon Lit Blitz by the Mormon Lit Lab. Sign up for our newsletter for future updates.