Eight
The morning sun, filtered through the kitchen window, cast a warm, dusty glow over the Hickeys’ breakfast table. Mrs. Hickey, with an exasperated but fond look on her face, bustled about, packing two identical lunches with the practiced ease of a woman who had been doing this for far too many years. Clovis, her husband, sat at the head of the table, a fortress of solitude behind his newspaper. He pretended to be engrossed in the headlines but, in truth, missed nothing.
Steve, acr