Feral rubbed his eyes with his fists. “I don’t like it,” he said.
“Don’t like what?”
“The light’s too bright.”
Vern nodded and planted a dry kiss on his clammy forehead. “We’ll be inside shortly.” She picked him up so his legs straddled her right hip, then grabbed Howling’s hand.
“Was that man a giant like from a story?” asked Feral, resting his head on Vern’s shoulder. Even though he was only an hour younger than Howling, he would always be the baby in a way the elder twin wasn’t. “Did you see that fur all over his face? Do all giants have fur? Are there more of him? Are there more of you? Are there littluns like us?”
Vern would be better prepared to handle her children’s onslaught of questions if she got some food in her. Hungry as she was, she could eat for five or six. “Like I told Howling last night, you got to take it as it comes. Come on. Let’s go get some electricity food.”
Vern stopped at the first food place she came to, thankful that even though the drive-through was so long the line extended out onto the street, the inside was empty. A worker in a black-and-white-striped uniform turned to Vern, stumbling backward before composing herself. “Are you all right, honey?” she asked.
Vern took out cash from the napkin in her pouch. “How much food can I get for fifteen dollars?” she asked, sliding the cash over the counter.
The worker hesitated several moments but grabbed the cash before pressing several buttons on the cash register. “That’ll be fourteen ninety-one,” she said, and handed Vern a nickel and four pennies. “Just give me a minute.”
When she returned with a large bag of food and a large cup, Vern directed the children over to a quiet booth in the back next to the emergency exit. Vern laid out the fresh food as well as the scavenged barbecue from last night and started to eat.
“What is it?” Howling asked, looking skeptical. The barbecue, at least, was recognizable. Howling picked at the chopped brisket and ribs, but found it much too sweet. Vern removed the sausage and bacon from one of the breakfast sandwiches and gave it to Howling. Howling ate that gladly, smiling as juice squirted from one of the links onto his chin.
“Try a bite of this,” said Vern, handing each of them some biscuit. Feral grubbed his portion down, licking his fingers when he was done, asking for more. Howling nibbled a tiny bite, which he subsequently spat out. The outside world had increased Howling’s surliness and transformed Feral’s sweet curiosity into spirited adventurousness.
Vern filled the large cup with cola from the drink fountain. She poked her straw through the plastic lid and slurped a ravenous sip, then gave it to the kids to try. They hated it, so she guzzled it down herself before filling the cup back up with water for them.
“You hungry still, Mam?” Feral asked. “I can hear your belly. It sounds like a river.” He then proceeded to mimic the deep gulping noises in her belly.
“Worry about your own stomach,” said Vern. “You done?” Feral nodded and wiped biscuit crumbs from his mouth with the back of his hand. “And Howling?”
“I’m done,” he said, though he was still chewing. “Mam?” “What?” she asked, irritable because the two breakfast sandwiches she’d eaten hadn’t dented her hunger.
“Where are all the animals here?”
“They’re around,” she said. “You just got to look a bit closer. Come on, let’s pack up. It’s still a long way to Lucy and we’ll need supplies. Different clothes.”
“My clothes is fine,” said Howling, chewing angrily on the same mouthful of food he’d had a minute ago. Feral pulled napkins from the dispenser and began tidying up his area, swishing around the mess rather than effectively cleaning it.
“This cloth is thin as a fallen leaf, damn,” said Feral, and shook his head, but he was more amused than critical. “Look! It’s already broken.” The split napkin dangled from his pointer-and-thumb grip, smeared with honey and a dab of white gravy.
“Why is everything so high up here?” asked Howling, eyeing his seat and the table suspiciously. In the woods, they sat on the ground, occasionally on a log or stump, a boulder. Here, everything was a throne.
Vern grabbed their tray of trash and dumped it into the can. “What is that?” asked Feral, pointing to where she’d disposed the food. “Where is all that stuff going?”
“Quiet, for fuck’s sake!” said Vern, when Feral asked where he should go piss, and where was an appropriate place to squat to do his other business. Later, she’d take him to the bathroom, but right now she couldn’t deal with all their questions. Each one was a reminder of her failure. She might as well not have birthed them at all—kept them wrapped in her womb flesh. She was no better than her own mam, who’d raised her in a den of falsities and ignorance.