Conveyor belt.
The chips poke out of the carton like fat fingers. I take a handful and stuff them into my mouth. The first bite is molten; it strips a layer of skin from the roof of my mouth. The pain is good. The vinegar, a small whip: Bold girl.
The cola is made from proper syrup. Sugary fizz hits my tongue and collides with the salt like an out-of-control firework. I cradle the Maxi-Gulp in both hands. The cup is solid; it anchors me in the front seat of the car outside the food truck on the petrol station concourse. Taking another deep sip, I think back to Fiona’s ninth birthday party. 

Fiona lived next door, and the annual invite was extended out of duty, or pity, after Dad left. It seemed to say: Come, but you’re not welcome here.
That year Fiona’s big present was a Soda-Stream fizzy-drink maker. It came in a red and white box and had little coloured bottles of syrup, ready to make “sodas”. 
Fiona left it on the kitchen table in shreds of wrapping paper and moved onto her next present. I made a grab for the box, but Fiona’s Mam lifted it out of reach and put it on top of the tall fridge freezer.
‘But …’ I remember saying my eyes drawn to Fiona who had moved down the line of presents.
‘Bold girl,’ said Fiona’s Mam, in a low voice, the smile never leaving her face. 
I picture myself standing there, looking down the table at each present, unwrapped, inspected, discarded; some strange conveyor belt of plenty. My Mam worked in the semi-conductor factory and explained how each person had a special job and how they had to keep up with the conveyor belt. Fiona was faster at unwrapping than any conveyor belt. 
I imagined owning the Soda-Stream. How I would make fizzy drinks to go with breakfast, lunch and dinner. I’d bring one to school every day in the flask Dad left behind at the very back of the cupboard. It would conceal the soda and mean no more milk scheme for me. 
I dreaded the tray of cartons that were delivered to class by one of the girls from sixth class each morning. Blue and white cartons containing grey, lukewarm milk. 
I swallowed the milk and gulped back my white bread sandwich the minute the bell rang. It was cleared from its tinfoil swaddling before Fiona and the others had time to see that it was a fake: two slices of bread glued shut with margarine, no filling. 

The chip carton is nearly empty, and I dig my fist into the carton to get the crispy chips ends. When I pull out my hand, it’s covered with salt crystals. Their beauty in the fading November light shocks me.
The clock on the dashboard reads: 16:47. My shift ended nearly an hour ago.
Time to get home, to make dinner. Mam will be waiting for news from the factory.