21
On Wednesday morning, Scott poured milk on his Frosty Os and spooned some in his mouth as his aunt walked into the kitchen, unaided. He always felt uneasy when she left her cane behind. “What can I get you?” He still had his mouth full, and milk splashed down his chin.
“I’m more than capable of making my own breakfast, thank you, Scott. But you could do me a favor and not speak with your mouth full. That almost put me off my food.” She brushed past him, stopping at the cooker. “How you can call that breakfast, I don’t know. You should be eating grits and eggs. Would you like me to make you some?”
“Hmm, grits. No thanks.” The thought almost put him off his cereal. “I’m already running late this morning.” He ate the Frosty Os in record time and washed up his bowl and spoon before givin
