I'm dead. I'm officially dead. My father would be so mad—scratch that—he was probably already mad as heck. I had to get home as soon as possible; every minute that I delayed going back, the worse my 'welcome' would be. Without thinking, I stood and hurried into the kitchen with my untouched food. I scraped the mac and cheese back into the pot of leftovers and washed and dried my plate, scurrying around the kitchen, looking as to where they were stored. After I found it and placed it gently inside, I sat in one of the chairs to the small table and covered my face with my hands, trying to calm my shaking body. I didn't want to go home, but I knew the sooner I went, the less my punishment would be. Why he cared so much about it was beyond my knowledge, but I got the feeling that he looked for
