Dinner smelled and looked amazing. In the middle of the table sat delectable chicken breasts, seasoned visually and topped with slices of lemon. In bowls surrounding them were green beans, mashed potatoes, and some golden rolls. Each table setting had a glass of milk and water before it. Waylon’s stomach clenched almost painfully.
He was tempted to forgo all manners and judgement to pile everything on his plate and tuck it away. There seemed to be a part of him, that new, constant fearful part, that worried something would happen soon—a minute, an hour, tomorrow—and if it did he didn’t know when he’d be eating again. He tramped that down, though and let silence settle over the table.
After a moment he started with the realization that Eddie, conservative, old-fashioned Eddie, was waiting for him to make their plates. He stood in a stut