My son, Johan, rolls his eyes at my refrigerator, stuffed with ancient leftovers I can’t throw away. “You’re not starving anymore,” he says, worried for me. On the outside, I wear a mask of reassurance. But inside, I cannot relax my vigilance: I know that hunger can always return. Luck can run out anytime, so I always have a plan. Is this PTSD? Or is it déjà vu, paired with practical action? The answer is yes.
