“Did you?” Garik inquired skeptically. His son was hunched over, drawing in quick, short breaths.
“Come inside, Soren; you’re not in any trouble. I’m just giving you a hard time.”
Garik let out a playful, fatherly chuckle, and turned to enter the house.
Soren nodded, and followed at his father’s heels. Their kitchen was a small open space, enclosed in countertops made of a similar material to that of the Wall - along with most of the Coalition’s structures. Soren sat in one of the three bar stools that lined the counter, and held his head up with his fist. The aroma of dinner, some sort of soup on the oven top, was circulating throughout the entire house.
Garik proceeded straight to the pot, and lifted the lid, releasing a miniature cloud of meat-scented steam. A plethora of spice jars we scattered on the counter.
“Your favorite: berryhawk and rice,” Garik said over his shoulder as he gently stirred the Makeloan delicacy. Soren’s stomach rumbled.
“So,” his father said, tapping the ladle on the lip of the pot, and turning to his boy. “Tell me what you saw out there.”
Soren looked deep into his father’s crystal blue eyes. He gulped.
“I saw a ship.”
“What kind of ship?”
Garik leaned onto the countertop in front of his son, supporting himself with crossed arms.
“It was on fire,” Soren continued. “I was just sitting there, and I saw a light. When I looked with my binoculars -”
“I thought I told you to return those,” Garik interrupted.
“It was on fire,” Soren continued, shoving off his father’s statement.