RE stared into the fridge, the cool air greeting them like an old friend. A colorful array of leftovers and half-eaten snacks awaited their scrutiny. “Let’s see what we have…” They squinted, scratching their head. "Ah, a sliver of milk!" RE exclaimed, dramatically gesturing at the small carton that barely contained enough liquid for a sip. Their eyes danced down the shelves—an abandoned jar of pickles, a single slice of cold pizza, a sad, shriveled carrot. “Pirate treasure, I tell ya!” they chuckled, breaking into a brief jig. "I wish I could have some pasta. Just then, their dad wandered in, pausing mid-yawn. “A sliver of milk? Out of all the things you could call that amount, you say a sliver?”  RE grinned up at him, one hand still raised. “It just feels… poetic!” Dad raised an eyebrow, a curious glint in his eye. “Poetic enough to eat?” RE shrugged, the challenge igniting in their chest. What would they do?