While my son was in the kitchen getting that jug of water, Raven
began shaping the pile of earth from the plant pot on the table. He
swirled it around with his hand to make a well, looked at his dirty
fingers for a moment, then tutted to himself and wiped it off on the
edge of his overalls. Next, he patted his pockets, looking for
something.
Both Mary and I were watching him closely, couldn't help ourselves.
There was something about him, especially when he was preoccupied or
busy, you just couldn't take your eyes off him.
After a few seconds of searching, he was beginning to look
frustrated. “Where is that blasted thing?” he said, mainly to
himself I think, “I'm sure I had one with me.”
From the kitchen we heard the sound of Robert being sick: a terrible
sound if ever I heard one. My wife and I looked at each other, she
was obviously more worried than ever.
“Is everything okay, Robert?” she shouted, to which she got a
terse “Fine.”
Raven was still patting his pockets when Oak said “Here, use mine,”
reaching forward to offer him the nub of a candle.
