The weathered wood of the roadside stand spoke of summer heat and sweltering desperation. "Wasp Honey," read the sign, in neat black letters. The honey was in jam-jars and old bottles, all clearly scrounged from someone's kitchen. It was black as coffee.
"Some sort of regional concoction?" asked Dan. "Like vegemite?"
"Nope," said the freckled woman behind the stand. "Them wasps made it."
"And it's not... It's okay to eat?"
The woman shrugged. "I ain't died yet."
Shannon dipped a finger in a jar and tasted it. "Oh, God!" she cried, retching.
"Hey!" said the woman. "At least they're trying."
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