Текст книги "The Moon Dwellers"
Автор книги: David Estes
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THE MOON DWELLERS
Book One of
The Dwellers Saga
David Estes
Copyright 2012 David Estes
Nook Edition, License Notes
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Discover other exciting titles by David Estes available through the author’s official website:
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The Evolution Trilogy by David Estes:
Book One—Angel Evolution
Book Two—Demon Evolution
Book Three—Archangel Evolution
For Adele. Just for being you.
Prologue
Adele
7 months ago
Hands grope, men shout, boots slap the rock floor.
Clay dishes and pots are smashed to bits as the Enforcers sweep recklessly through our house. There are more bodies in the tiny stone box that I call home than ever before. The walls seem to be closing in.
My mother’s face is stricken with anger, her lips twisted, her eyebrows dark. Like a wild animal, her teeth snap and snarl. I’ve never seen her fight like this. I’ve never seen her fight at all.
It takes three bulging Enforcers to subdue her kicking legs, her thrashing arms. For just a moment I am scared of her and not the men. I hate myself for it.
I realize my sister is by my side, watching, like me. I can’t let her see this—can’t let this be her last memory of the ones who raised us. I usher her back into the small room that we share with my parents, and close the door, shutting her inside alone.
When I turn back to the room, my mother is already gone, taken. Undigested beans from our measly supper rise in my throat.
My father is next.
The Enforcers jeer at him, taunt him, spit on him. As he backs his shoulders against the cold, stark, stone wall, five men corner him. Smart. They don’t underestimate him.
He makes eye contact with me; his emerald-green eyes are hard with concentration. Despite the inherent tension in the room, his face is relaxed, calm, the exact opposite of his eyes. Run, he mouths.
My feet are frozen to the floor. My knees lock, stiffen, disobey me and my father. I am ashamed. After all that my father has done for me, when it counts the most, I fail him.
One of the men lifts an arm and a gun. I hold my breath when I hear the shot, a dull thwap! that doesn’t sound like a normal gun. The man moves backwards slightly from the force, but his legs are planted firmly and he maintains his balance.
My father slumps to the floor. I feel my lips trembling, and my hand moves unbidden to my mouth. My frozen feet melt and I try to run to him, but a big body bars my way. I don’t think—just react. I kick him hard, like my father taught me. My heel catches the Enforcer under his chin and his head snaps back. Like most people, he underestimates me.
The next Enforcer doesn’t.
The Taser rips into my neck and tentacles of electricity slam my jaw shut. My teeth nearly snap off my tongue, which is flailing around in my mouth. They don’t take it easy on me just because I’m a kid, or a girl—not after what I did to the first guy. Still stunned by the Taser, I barely feel the thump of their hard boots as they kick me repeatedly in the ribs. My eyes are wet, and through my blurred vision I see the arcing nightstick.
Strangely, it feels like destiny, like it was always going to happen.
I hear my sister’s screams just before I black out.
Chapter One
Adele
My heart is alive again. Because I see him. I know I should hate him—everyone else around me does.
“Filthy mutt,” I hear one guy growl, “he should’ve stayed above.”
“Yeah,” another guy says, “I’m surprised he’s gettin’ his shoes dirty down ’ere with the rats.”
But for some reason I choose not to hate him. Not today. I need something to change my mood, something to bring me back to life. And he is the only option. It is the first day since arriving at the Pen that I consider suicide a viable option. Others think about taking their own lives on a daily basis—I hear their screams echo down the empty prison halls at night. And some of them have, even in the six months I’ve been here.
I am sitting in the yard when I hear the bell chime. The yard is what we call the expansive area outside the Pen’s main building, although I don’t know who came up with the name, because it makes no sense. There is no yard, just barren rock. Real yards—with grass, bushes, and trees—are magical places that don’t exist in our world.
The high fence surrounding the prison buzzes with electricity and threatens us with barbed wire. They made the fence easy to see through, so we can see our town, subchapter 14 of the Moon Realm, a glimpse of the freedom we don’t have. And the non-prisoners can also see us, the convicted.
A few months earlier I saw a young boy, no more than fourteen, go crazy all of a sudden and rush the fence, desperate to experience the outside world that only his eyes could taste. I was sitting right here when it happened. As soon as his hands touched the metal his body convulsed and he flew backwards onto the rock, his arm trapped awkwardly beneath his body. He didn’t die, but he can’t lift one of his arms above his head anymore. I see stuff like that happen all the time in this place.
The bell we call the death toll—an awful keening that shivers my bones. It is called the death toll because it only rings when someone dies, as if to remind us of our only chance of escape. Sometimes the death is self-inflicted; other times, not. It isn’t ringing now, and yet I can hear it. When no one else reacts I know it’s in my head. Perhaps it’s ringing for me. I could pick a fight with a gang, let them kill me, escape this prison the only way I know how.
But suicide isn’t me at all. Not really. I’m kind of a survivalist by nature. I think I get that from my dad. But I’ve been sentenced to life in prison. First in the Pen until I turn eighteen, which is just a few short months away, and then off to the Max, a maximum security adult prison, which wouldn’t be so bad if I wasn’t absolutely sure the food won’t be any better than that of the dump I’m in now.
Yeah, things in my life are looking pretty bleak. I feel…I feel lost. And alone. More alone than I’ve ever felt, which is a hard thing for me to admit. You’d think that staying six months in one place would be plenty of time to make some friends, but I can’t seem to. Other teenagers in the Pen manage to make friends—some even seem to like each other—but I pretty much keep to myself. I’m not sure if it’s a choice or not, but I certainly don’t make an effort to meet anyone. And I guess my stay-away-from-me-or-get-a-knee-in-the-groin vibe is strong enough that no one feels like trying to make friends with me either.
For six months my heart has withered away, slowly shriveling up and eventually dying, until I can’t feel anything. I mean, if someone pinches me it will hurt, but I probably won’t react. I find that the less emotion I put into life, the less the past seems to hurt. I can’t forget what happened, but I can try to not remember it. A subtle difference, I suppose. So I let each day slip by in a hazy routine; one where I sleep on my hard bed, eat the crap food they feed us, and perform the remedial tasks assigned to me, all the while generally avoiding raising my chin high enough to see anyone who I might one day call my friend.
Today I do look up. Grudgingly, maybe, but I do. First, when the bell tolls in my head. Then again when all the noise begins. After all, the racket is disturbing me. I am busy wallowing in self-pity, which I prefer to do in silence. The parade passes the Pen, just outside the fence, so close, making all kinds of noise, people cheering, drums thumping, dogs barking.
And there he is. A beacon of light in the dark. Tristan is his name. A name I grew up hearing spoken lightly amongst my friends. That was back when I had friends, of course. When life was simple, if not particularly good. Life is never good as a moon dweller. My father would tan my backside if he heard me say something like that. “Adele,” he used to say, “we are a blessed people, a blessed family. There are many others less fortunate than us.” Yeah, tell that to the men who dragged you away from me.
All the girls in my old school are in love with Tristan. Obviously, none of them know him, but like any male celebrity, he captures the attention of young, naïve females. But I’m not supposed to notice him. I’m supposed to be different. I’m strong, independent, rebellious. My father calls me a fighter. So I fight. Against whatever is popular, whatever is in. If the current fad is to wear dark-colored tunics then I’ll wear light. Or if the other girls really like wearing clothes every day then I’ll go naked. Not really, of course, but you get what I mean.
Now, stuck in the Pen, it seems like an awfully big waste of energy—to swim against the current, that is. But I can’t take it back, not any of it, no matter how hard I try. No matter how much I try to wish it all away, my past is the zit that you pop, watch bleed, watch heal, only to see poking from your skin again a week later.
Back to Tristan—who is the polar opposite of a recurring blemish. Blond, curly hair. Seventeen but already over six feet tall. Strong, solid frame. A princely face. Big, navy blue eyes. An addictive smile, with right-sized lips and ivory teeth. By addictive I mean like the hard stuff—crack cocaine. Not that I’ve tried it. Drugs are hard to come by down here. Not that I would try them if I could. Anyway, Tristan’s smile is like crack, in a way. You can’t look away from it even if you want to. You need it like an addict needs his next hit.
As he flashes a smile, I’m astonished to feel tiny bats in my stomach, despite the fact that his smile is targeted at his adoring fans. It’s like the black-winged rats are flitting about in my ribcage with needles and thread, patching and stitching my heart together again, using a bicycle pump to breathe life back into it. I’ve only ever seen Tristan’s face on a sun dweller magazine, and let me tell you, the photo didn’t do him justice. Although that was a few years ago, so maybe he’s just grown up since then, become a man.
Suddenly, I want to be with him. Yeah, me and every other girl living in subchapter 14 of the Moon Realm. There are about a thousand of them outside the Pen, lining the streets, screaming his name and throwing flowers at him. I even see one of them chuck her undergarments at him. I guess she’s addicted to his smile, too.
“You like him, don’t you?” a voice says from behind me.
I turn, unable to stop the look of surprise that blankets my face. A tall, white-haired girl stands before me. A blue streak runs down one side of her hair, which is long and straight, reaching all the way to the small of her back. She has porcelain features, as if her face was drawn on by an artist. I can’t help wondering what a beautiful girl like her is doing in a place like this. For a moment I can’t speak. I worry that my stay-away-from-me vibe disappeared, but then I check and find it’s still here. And yet this girl penetrated my defenses and dared to communicate with me? My first thought: There must be something wrong with her.
“Can I help you?” I say, probably not too nicely. My parents would be ashamed of me, but what can I say, I’m out of practice.
“I’m Tawni,” the girl says, sticking out her hand.
I look at her slender digits like they’re a nest of snakes, hesitate, and then eventually take them. I shiver at her icy touch, but her handshake feels surprisingly firm for how thin she is.
“Have a seat,” I say with a slight wave of my arm. I’m getting back into the groove, remembering all the tricks my mom taught me on how to be polite—like inviting a guest to sit down. It is my stoop, after all—I sit here every day.
With a slight grin she takes a seat next to me on the rock bench. “Thanks,” she says.
I grin back. I can’t believe it. I’m actually smiling. Well, sort of. I think it’s a pathetic attempt, but at least my lips are curled up in a crooked, awkward, I-don’t-know-how-to-smile-for-pictures kind of way. You know, like those kids in Year Three who always end up with the worst yearbook photos? The ones with the crazy eyes and fake smiles. That’s me trying to smile at my new friend, Tawni. Or at least she’s the closest person I have to a friend at the moment.
“Are you going to answer my question or what?” she says.
I wrack my brain, trying to remember her having asked me a question. The shock of having my first human interaction in months seems to cause my brain to malfunction. In my mind I am thinking Uh-duh-uh-duh-uh-duh, but I don’t think saying that will win me any points with Tawni, so instead I say, “Can you repeat the question?”
I know I sound so stupid, so formal, like a kid at school caught daydreaming by a shrewd teacher, but you can’t take back words once they leave your mouth, as my mom always used to point out when I would mouth off growing up. Tawni should walk away from me at this point, but she doesn’t.
“Tristan—do you like him?”
“Oh,” I say. I don’t understand the question. Like what? His looks? Well, yeah, the way I am staring at him probably gave that away. His personality? Hmmm, given I have never spoken to him—will never speak to him—that is a hard one to answer. His ruling style? To be honest, I am a bit out of the loop when it comes to politics. I know his dad is a creep, but I don’t know much about him.
So, because I don’t really understand the question, I just sit dumbly, hoping she will think I’m a nut and leave me alone. Not really. I do sit dumbly, but I’m not hoping she will leave. Truth be told, I’m glad to be talking to someone. Conversing—in an awkward sort of way. Tawni seems okay, and already I am feeling less alone. My urge to rush the fence and send thousands of volts of electricity shooting through my body has almost passed.
I have a sudden desire to be close to someone again, to know someone, to have a friend. The desire is so strong it takes me by surprise. I am so used to keeping everyone away from me that I forgot how good it feels to have people close by. My whole body tingles from the conversation. Very weird.
Surprisingly, Tawni doesn’t leave. Instead, she answers for me. “Yeah, I know. I like him, too.”
I’m not sure which of the potential questions she is answering, maybe all three. His looks, his personality, his ruling style. Maybe she’s another one of his crazed fans, obsessive to the point of throwing underwear.
The parade passes slowly—Tristan will be out of sight in a few minutes, moving down another street, probably heading toward Moon Hall, where the local politicians gather to do whatever it is that they do. Mostly screw us over. I crane my neck, trying to get a final glimpse of his smile.
“I don’t think he’s a bad guy,” Tawni says.
“Mmm, really?” I say, only half listening.
“No. I mean his dad’s a jerk, but I don’t think kids should be judged by what their stupid parents do.”
My ears perk up. I glance at Tawni. Her slight grin has melted. Her lips are pursed and thin. My brain starts functioning again. Doing the math, so to speak—figuring things out. Like I always did with my dad. My dad and I liked to solve puzzles together. Any kinds of puzzles really. Word puzzles, math puzzles, riddles—that sort of thing. I know I shouldn’t be thinking of my new friend Tawni as a puzzle, but I can tell there’s some hidden meaning behind her words, some revelation about her past. I am suddenly interested in her. Where she comes from, who she is, what she has done to land herself in this hellhole.
I assume she still has hope—that much I gather from the fact that she doesn’t hate Tristan just because of who he is. The hopeless tend to be the hardest on the sun dwellers, particularly the ones in a position of power. I can also tell from her words that she harbors animosity toward her parents, presumably for something they’ve done, something that reflects badly on her. Maybe it’s all linked to why she’s in the Pen wasting her days away like me. But I’m only speculating.
I glance at Tawni and see that she’s looking toward the parade, so I turn back to watch. The lead car, in which Tristan is standing, is about to turn the corner. He’s waving to his adoring fans, smiling his mesmerizing smile, when he looks at me. Right at me, like his eyes are gun sights and I am their target. Despite the distance, they pierce me to my very soul, instantly warming my recently resurrected heart. I am captivated, frozen in place, like I’ve turned to stone. It’s as if there’s an invisible tether between our eyes linking us together. It’s not like I can read his mind or anything—nothing that farfetched—but I just feel something for him, like I know him. I don't know exactly—it’s hard to explain.
As I stare at him, his face changes. Gone is the smile. Gone are his piercing eyes. All swallowed up in a frown. At first I think I was rude, that I have stared too long, but then I feel a presence approaching from the side, a dark shadow.
I turn my head and see a guy.
I’ve seen him around the yard before. A teenager in a man’s body. Six-five, about two hundred and fifty pounds, covered in tats: he is one of the local gang leaders. Not a good guy.
“Hey, beautiful,” he says.
I ignore him and look at Tawni, hoping he will pass straight by me. He doesn’t. Tawni shrugs.
“Hey,” he says.
I keep ignoring him.
“I said ‘Hey,’” he repeats.
“I heard you the first time.” I still don’t look at him, not wanting to inadvertently extend an invitation with eye contact.
“You should watch your mouth,” he says.
“And you should keep on walking,” I say.
He doesn’t. “I haven’t seen you around before,” he says.
“You must be blind. I’m here every day.”
“Nah, I would’ve noticed you for sure,” the gang leader says.
Tawni shrugs again. I’m looking at her, but talking to the guy. “Whatever. Doesn’t matter. Leave me alone.”
I finally swivel my head and make eye contact with him, giving him my iciest stare. I know he’s not scared of me, but I want him to decide I’m not worth the effort.
“Not gonna happen,” he says, moving in close to me.
Something inside me snaps. I’m sick of people ruining my life, acting like they own me. He reminds me of the Enforcers who barged into our house and abducted my parents. Arrogant. Selfish.
I stand up, my teeth bared, my eyes on fire. My fire-eyes barely reach his chest. His sweat-stained tunic is right in my face and makes me nauseous. I push him as hard as I can, which doesn’t do much, but moves him back a couple of steps. My hands are knotted into fists. I hold them out in front of me, ready for the guy’s response.
“You’re a real bitch,” he says. “And you smell like filth. See you around.” He slowly turns and saunters off, chuckling to himself.
I take a deep breath, try to get control of my rage.
“That was amazing,” Tawni whispers from behind me.
I sit back down and try to relax my face as I look at her. Her eyes are wide. “He’s a jerk,” I say through clenched teeth.
“A scary jerk,” she says. “That was awesome how you stood up for yourself.”
“Wouldn’t you?”
Tawny shrugs for the third time. “Honestly, I probably would have tried to run away, or yell for help or something. Not fight—that’s for sure.”
Tawni’s eyes flick back to the fence and I follow her gaze. The parade. Tristan. I forgot all about him when the gang guy approached me.
But now Tristan is gone, the front of the parade having moved out of sight while I was dealing with the thug.
“That was pretty weird,” Tawni murmurs, still looking past the fence.
“What was?” I say, glancing at her furtively. Did she notice the way Tristan looked at me? Did she sense what I had? Had I imagined the look of concern on his face just before the confrontation with the gang guy, or had she seen it, too?
“I didn’t see many photographs being taken of Tristan during the parade. I thought the paparazzi would be out in full force.”
I roll my eyes at myself. Of course Tawni didn’t notice Tristan looking at me. Probably because he didn’t. He’d probably just looked in our general direction, past us. He was probably frowning at all of us—at the criminals. Disgusted by us. Clearly he wasn’t warning me about the approaching gangster. My mind has a way of playing tricks on me. My dad always said I have an overactive imagination. It’s gotten me into trouble more than once growing up. Like the time in Year One when I told everyone in my class about the swamp monster that was hiding in the janitor’s closet. Some of the kids freaked out, crying and screaming and stuff; one boy even peed his pants. Then Mrs. Windsor checked and discovered that my swamp monster was really a savage mop, clearly looking for a young child to feast on.
Yeah, in reality Tristan probably didn’t even look at me. I might have seen his head turn in my direction, perhaps a random glance at best, certainly not the laser-beamed, tethered gaze that I’d obviously imagined.
But still. There is no doubt I felt something for him.
I feel something for him.
“Helloooo? Earth to…What’s your name anyway?” Tawni waves her hand across my face—apparently I’ve spaced out, lost in my own random thoughts.
“Adele,” I find myself saying, to my surprise. Giving my name away so easily like that—what am I thinking? Tawni is penetrating my social defenses faster than a mine cave-in swallows a trapped traveler.
“Well, Adele, it has been a true pleasure meeting you and watching you handle that guy. Truly impressive, really. Would you like to dine with me and my friend Cole tonight?”
Dine? This girl has a funny way of speaking. Like she has no clue that we’re locked up in a juvenile detention center. And that we live underground. And that most of us will never get our freedom back. Certainly not me. Maybe she is just a few days from being released, which would certainly explain why she seems so cheery. I hope so. If I can’t get out, at least someone I know can.
“Uh, yeah, I guess so,” I say. “Thanks,” I add quickly, realizing how rude I sound.
“Great! Meet us in the northwest corner—we’ll reserve a table.”
There she goes again: speaking as if we’re going out to some fancy restaurant that accepts reservations. I shake my head and realize I’m smiling. Not my normal smile—no, I’m not ready for that yet—but slightly better than the crooked, awkward smile I attempted earlier. Maybe things are looking up for me. I’ve made a friend. At least, the closest thing to a friend I’ve had in a long time.
* * *
There are only two hours to kill before dinner, so I use the time to think. I start with the past—my happiest memories. My father coming home from a long day of work in the mines, filthy and dripping sweat, but bringing my sister and me a treat of some kind. Either a small gemstone that he’d smuggled out or a piece of candy he’d bought in town. He always seemed to have a twinkle in his eye and a bounce in his step, no matter how tired he was. Sometimes he even gave me a piggyback ride before he got cleaned up. My mother hated it when he did that, because then I’d have to take a bath before supper, too.
God, how I love my father.
I love my mother, too, but in a different way. She isn’t as playful as my father, is quicker to punish, and is less rebellious toward the sun dwellers. She says that it isn’t our place to tell the wise leaders—who’d gotten us through Year Zero, she likes to remind—how to run the government. I try to see her point, but it’s been nearly five hundred years since Year Zero, and all of the people from back then are long dead.
I shake my head and try to focus on the happy memories of my mom. When we’d cook radish stew together, play games of chess and checkers, watch the late-night news on our beat-up old telebox.
My mother is the most compassionate person I know. If someone in our neighborhood was sick, she was always the first to deliver a meal to them, using our already scant supplies to help out a friend. Sometimes I got mad at her, wished she wouldn’t do stuff like that, wished she wouldn’t give away our stuff. But I usually felt bad about my thoughts later on. In the deepest recesses of my soul I am always proud of her.
But as usual, my thoughts quickly do a one-eighty. Now I am thinking about all that has gone wrong, all that is bad. About the cruelty of life.
About how I have failed my parents. I don’t dare to hope that they are still alive.
I think about all the waste in the world. Although we live underground now, we still require many of the same basic necessities humans have needed for decades. Toothpaste, for example. Instead of being produced in a factory somewhere in China, it’s produced in a cave somewhere. Certainly not in China. If there is still a China, we aren’t connected to it anymore. China’s just a place on an old map from my history class in school. We are on a lone island.
The point is: we use up the toothpaste and then throw out the container. It is sent to the lava flow for destruction. Have human lives become like a tube of toothpaste? Something to be used up and thrown away? At first the tube seems so big, so full of life. But after just a few uses it becomes dented and lumpy—already life is ebbing away from it—and it’s only a matter of time before the final bit is squeezed out, rendering it an empty vessel, good for nothing.
I feel myself being squeezed out every day.
I try to distract myself, gazing up at the dimly lit cavern ceiling rising more than twenty stories above me. It’s weird being in the Pen, cut off from the town, and yet being able to see everything that the non-prisoners can see. From the yard, I can see the same massive cavern that houses our town, the Pen, all of us. If I didn’t know it so well, the 14th subchapter might be a stunning sight, with an arcing roof coated by the glossy sheen of the panel lighting that controls our days and nights. The cavern was excavated more than two hundred years ago, and covers more than five square miles. Most of the rough and jagged rocks were smoothed over, huge stone support columns built, stone roads laid, and houses and buildings erected.
There is a light commercial district, where goods can be bought, sold, and traded. Mostly they’re traded, because the wages are so low that money is short. I remember well the first money I ever had. My father saved for a month so he could give it to me on my tenth birthday. A single Nailin, bright and shiny and round. Printed with the face of the President. I stared at it for hours, trying to imprint its memory in my mind, for I knew it would soon be gone, wasted, on a silly dress I’d coveted for over a year. Every time I passed by the dress shop in town, I stopped to look at the dress. It was black and long, and would sweep the floor as I walked. The sleeves were sheer and translucent, elegant in their simplicity. Simple—that’s the way I like things. There were no frills, no laces, no bows—simple. I bought that dress with my first Nailin.
I outgrew it in three months. Funny the way the world works sometimes.
The pinnacle of the town, however, is the mine. All things considered, we are lucky. Many of the other subchapters in the Realm have mines, but none so valuable as ours. For ours is full of gemstones, raw and uncut—and worth a fortune to the sun dwellers. So you’d expect us to be a rich town. We should be, but once the taxes are taken out of the workers’ wages, it’s a pittance, barely enough to survive on.
When my father complained, they took him away. My mother, too, guilty by association. I was sent to the Pen and my sister to a crummy, broken-down orphanage. Yeah, life is good as a moon dweller.
Given my dark thoughts, I am glad when the two hours pass. I leave the yard, weaving my way through the kids who are still lounging about. Some are clustered in groups, speaking in hushed whispers, trading pages of books for cigarettes, and cigarettes for socks, and socks for whatever else will help them forget they are prisoners, that their lives are forfeit. Others are sprawled out on the rock, sleeping their sentences away. I wonder if their hearts have died, too, like mine had before it was resurrected by my glimpse of Tristan.
Inside the Pen it is like a cattle call. Kids are pushing against each other like a mob, all trying to get to the cafeteria. Feeding time is about the only time any of the kids show any kind of energy. Also when they are fighting. Interesting how both instances are a matter of survival.
I ease my way into the mash-up of bodies and manage to find a human flow that is moving swiftly in the right direction, like a strong current in one of the many underground rivers of the Tri-Realms. Soon—after only a few minor collisions—I am in the cafeteria.
Given the crowds, one might expect that the food is to die for. Perhaps it is a trendy new restaurant, one where you have to make a reservation, like Tawni suggested earlier. However, one bite of the lukewarm mashed potatoes or a spoon of the mystery stew is enough to clinch the notion that the executive chef would be much better suited to some other occupation—any other occupation. Seriously. It is bad. Tasteless. Like eating a shoe. And not a new one. One that has been worn for years by someone who suffers from severe foot sweating.
But we have no choice. It’s the only show in town, a monopoly—on our stomachs. So we add lots of salt, which by some miracle they provide in plenty.
Once in the food line, I order—by pointing at things and grunting—a gob of something covered in brown gravy, a noodle dish that looks like dead worms, and a plastic cup of brownish water. Yum.
I find Tawni right where she said she’d be—at one of the corner tables. Most every table is already full, so I’m glad she arrived early enough to get it. Usually I just take my food outside, to eat alone in silence.
