When I wake up, it’s about mid-day. At least, that’s what I figure based on my incredibly, ultra-amazing abilities of judging the location of the sun.
I find two bags of groceries on the table with a note:
I hope you cook.
“Yeah, why’s that, Fred?” I say to no one. “What am I? Your cook? Your wife?”
I manage to make myself dry scrambled eggs with toast and marmalade jam and eat out on the steps. Despite the fact that this is now technically my prison – one surrounded by people-eating wolves and managed by a massive, would-be murderer with a celebrity-child name, it’s actually beautiful.
My life is normally quite hectic. Having to show up places with my father and smile to give off the impression that we are a nice, happy family is simultaneously exhausting and soul-sucking at the same
