Ben, oblivious to the economic implications, simply asked, "Can I have more jam, Dad?"…. The familiar ding of a text message pierced the haze of John’s post-night shift exhaustion. “Five strawberry spreads, five raspberry jams,” the message from his wife, Sarah, read. John sighed, dragging his beat-up sedan towards the local grocery store. He couldn’t fathom why they needed so much jam, but Sarah’s requests were rarely questioned. Inside, the brightly lit aisles seemed to mock his weariness. He shuffled towards the jam section, only to find a chaotic scene. The shelves were nearly bare. Three lonely jars of St. Dalfour strawberry spread remained, and the space where Bonne Maman raspberry preserves should have been was a gaping void. He grabbed the remaining strawberry spreads, a frown creasing his forehead. What on earth is going on? He arrived home, handing the strawberry spreads to Sarah, who was supervising the kids’ breakfa...