12
“Orange chicken?” Quentin said, sighing. Morgan blinked up at him, expectant, her fingers still scribbling their scales across the countertop.
“You didn’t order that, Daddy,” Morgan said, her voice bobbing up and down. “Is my rice pudding in there?”
“No. Not here, either,” Quentin sighed, frustrated. He dumped the bag on the far side of the counter, unsure of what to do. There wasn’t enough food for both of them, and Morgan had been quite picky lately, eating only vegetables and avoiding meat at all costs. She was a seven-year-old activist and an annoyance at the dinner table. Phase after phase after phase: that was childhood. Maybe it was adulthood, as well.
“Well, what am I going to eat, Daddy?” she asked playfully, spinning on a single toe.
“Why don’t you go practice the last pa
