I turn my hot cheek to his stare.
I avoid Arwyn’s just as intently.
I huddle up and watch the flames.
TWENTY-FOUR
Guess I fell asleep, because grogginess is a thick blanket draped over me when I stir to the nudge of a boot on my shoulder.
My eyes feel swollen, my face puffy, and a groan wisps out of me as I twist my spine to angle my face—and squint up at iceberg lettuce eyes.
His stare is unkind.
It always is.
An inherent coldness in him.
But he reaches down for me, a bowl cupped in his palm, and he drops it to the grass—to the literal grave I’m curled up on.
Sluggish, I blink at the bowl.
Slightly undercooked pasta glistens up at me, some carrots and whole mini potatoes that definitely came out of a can, and it’s all smothered in tinned spaghetti.
That’s not what hesitates me.
It’s that it’s a full bowl.
A full meal.
Not scraps.
I turn my puffy face to Samick again.
He has another bowl in his hand.
Must have been given two by the captives—or he took a second one for me.
The churn in my gut stops me from questioning it, and I sit up before pulling the bowl onto my lap.
I dig my bare fingers into the muck of food.
Goddamn, I hate the canned spaghetti here. Too sweet. It should only ever be savoury.
Those few times I visited my dad in the Before, I packed beans and cheesy pasta and my favourite crisps and canned spaghetti to bring over to Canada—so I had access to the good stuff.
Supposethegood stuffis just what we are raised with. Sort of how everyone thinks their mum’s broth or soup or chicken is the best, and no other compares, because nothing can compete with nostalgia.
There’s nothing nostalgic about these foods being lumped together into muck in a bowl. But that doesn’t stop me from devouring it like a fucking animal.
Is that what they see when they look at me?
If I lift my tired stare, eyes will be on me. I feel them, the glances, the glares, the frowned looks.
Some must wonder, the same as I do, why I’m fed a whole bowl this time.
I hide from the stares.
I swear I hear the faint sound of a sniff.
