You'll never know, dear.

"Rachel! I'm awful glad you're here." Mag quickly ushered her in. "I swear it's gettin' darker and darker out there."
Rachel shook her head, her hair thick with sweat and flattened with humidity. Mag's old Southern Gothic house was dark, candles lit in only a few rooms. "Dark as it ever is." She said.
"Right, right." Mag shut and locked the door. "I swear, lookin' up at the sky all black these days makes me as nervous in as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs." The windows at the end of the hall were boarded up. The room was thick with stuffy, humid air. A slight aroma was on the air. Rachel's empty stomach growled.
"There ain't been sun in these parts for years, you know that," Rachel said, stamping the mud off of her boots.
"Ain't been no sun ever," said a voice from the parlor. Rachel peered around the doorframe and saw Mag's big girl, Abigail, sitting on the once-plush couch, mending a worn dress shirt by the light of a burnt-down candle. Abigail was a few years older than Rachel, but her brow was creased into a permanent frown, like an old woman's.
"Now don't you say things like that," Mag chided. "Devil'll take you for faithless talk."
"I speak my mind, Momma. Ain't never been sun in these parts. Ain't never gonna be."
Rachel walked into the parlor. Aside from the couch Abigail sat on, the room was dominated by a large piano covered in a thick layer of dust. Mag slumped onto the couch next to her daughter, fiddling with the sleeve of the shirt being mended.
"You got the broadcast Thursday, right?" She asked, looking at Rachel.
"Sure did," Rachel said quietly, sitting down at the piano bench.
"I can't believe they'd cut off the supplies," Mag began, then stopped.
"Well, it was only a matter of time after the fever hit," Abigail said. "Half the people dead, the other half carriers."
Rachel nodded, forcing down the lump in her throat. "Quarantine was bad enough to kill the crops. How long you think we got?"
"Not long," Mag said. Her long, wrinkled face seemed older than it should have. She would have been Rachel's mother's age, maybe in her fifties. Her big brown eyes were wide, not with horror, but inevitable sadness.
Abigail sighed, and pulled her needle through a seam in the worn shirt.  "No one oughta be alone in times like these. Momma and I want you to throw your lot in with us."
Rachel swallowed. "I guess that'll be fine. I don't got no one else, not since Daddy-"
"Right," Abigail interrupted. "Neither do we."
Rachel suddenly raised her head from her study of the yellow piano keys. "What about Jonathan and James? They gotta have say-so."
Mag looked at Abigail for a long while, then turned her sad gaze at Rachel. "They don't no more."
"I don't understand," Rachel said, standing up.
"The fever, Rachel," Abigail said, setting aside her mendings. "You know how quick it strikes."
Rachel pushed her hair out of her face and noticed that Abigail had leaned forward, her hands were shaking without anything in them. She clenched them into fists.
"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" Rachel asked.
"Figured we'd drop the bad news in one set," Mag said, patting Abigail's shaking fists. "Seemed the polite thing."
Abigail stood suddenly, pushing off her mother's hands. "Dinner is gonna burn," she muttered, and hurried to the kitchen across the hall.
"Using the last supplies?" Rachel asked quietly, fingering the keys of the piano. "My store ran out just after the announcement. If I'd known I would have saved 'em."
"Oh honey, we used up the last treatin' Jonathan and James. Fever took 'em both so fast..." Mag's voice trailed off. She stood, irritated, and paced the room a few times, punctuated by the ticking of the clock in the hall.
The ache in Rachel's stomach was incessant, at even the thought of some sort of dinner. She supposed Abigail had boiled the last few grains they had. If she were lucky, Rachel idly thought, it might be the last sugar. She licked her cracked lips.
Mag suddenly planted herself on the piano bench next to Rachel. She pressed the keys, tentatively, then more confidently. A soft melody filled the room. Rachel's thin face broke into a smile. It was "You are My Sunshine," an old song from long before the dark days. It spoke of days when there were more than worn candles and the vain hope of sugar.  Her stomach ached painfully. She wished she could lean her head back and bask in some ethereal light, but there was only this moment, at the piano.
"You make me happy when skies are grey," she burst out. Tears had made a riverbed of her face, and she leaned down, her hair almost touching the keys as sobs wracked her body. She felt Mag's hands pause.
"Why would they do this to us?" Mag asked, wiping tears from her own face, furiously.
"The fever-" Rachel said weakly.
"There's more than one kinda fever," Mag said, her face stern, in spite of her tears. "There's a kind that ruins you forever. Makes you into a monster."
Rachel nodded, barely listening.
"Well, devil take it," Mag said. She slammed the cover over the keys. "Dinner ready yet?" she called out.
Abigail's big voice yelled back, "Soup's on!"
"Well come on, girl." Mag said, standing. She led Rachel across the hall to the dining room. A lace table cloth was draped over a long oak table. Gleaming silver and delicate China was set for three.
"Thought we'd eat in style, this being a special occasion," Mag explained, seating herself at the head.
The heady aroma of food swam in the thick air, Rachel was nearly salivating. The smell was unfamiliar but rich, savory. She knew her starved mind was playing tricks- it smelled like roast. She could practically taste the pot liquor running off it, ready to be served on potatoes. But there had been no potatoes for months. And meat? Had it been a year?
Abigail, her big, sharp face proud, burst into the room. She was holding a large, elegant serving tray. It was piled high with roast. Real roast. There were no potatoes, no vegetables, no bread in sight, and sugar was a fond memory at best. But there was meat, glorious meat, as far as the eye could see, a mile at least. Abigail placed the platter on the table without ceremony.
No one spoke. No one suggested grace. They all grabbed thick chunks of roast and tore into them. Rachel knew she would feel sick, gorging like this, but she couldn't help herself, even if she wanted. After several mouthfuls she licked her fingers, a little embarrassed, and took up the fine silverware.
"Glad you threw your lot in with us," Mag said, her mouth full.
"There's plenty left," Abigail said. "We'll use it all, even the bones. A couple legs'll feed us good."
"Where'd you find it?" Rachel asked, barely caring for the answer between mouthfuls.
"Our friend down the lane. They lost supplies ages ago, fever hit that side so hard. She gave us some tips after her husband died."
The reply didn't make much sense to Rachel, but her suddenly taut stomach began to protest. She fought to keep the meat from coming back up. She sat back in her seat, staring at the boards covering up the windows, blocking out the dark of the sky with more dark.
"Don't you dare," Abigail hissed. "You don't know what the meat cost us."
Rachel shook her head. The meat hadn't tasted like game, hadn't had the texture of beef. The consistency may have been pork... but she couldn't place the flavor.
"It won't last." She murmured. "They ain't never let us out of quarantine. What'll we do when this is all gone?"
"There's plenty around these days," Mag said, turning her face away.
"That's why we asked you to join us." Abigail said. "You didn't bury your daddy, did you?"