I made my way to the Mushroom Man, a coated UV tarp pulled over my head. Without it the noon-day sun would cook my skin. Within the city’s ruins, pockets of shade provided refuge. I scurried from shadow to shadow.
Down the subway stairs, rubble clacking away, the smell of loam filled my senses. Darkness gave me pause, my eyes adjusted slowly. The ancient forest smell consumed me.
“They’re not ready,” said the man who grows the mycelium leather.
I picked my way deeper into the gloom. “My kid needs those gloves.”
“Can’t rush the shrooms,” he cackled, madly.
[Another 99 word story prompt: kid gloves]