The seats were uncomfortable, at best, but Mr. Reynolds had not the slightest care in the world. He picked up his silverware as politely as possible, and then slaughtered the portion of chicken that lay in front of him. Mashed potatoes along with green beans filled the side of the plate, each fresher than he had ever tasted before.
'Still, nothin' beats a home-cooked meal.' He drank water, as he had his whole life. He had never fancied soda pops.
The lights flashed on and off briefly, but he took no notice. Thunderstorms were a common occurrence in his part of the world, and electricity was too fragile a thing to be depended upon with one hundred percent consistency.
It was the face of Artemis lying in his own food that gave pause to Mr. Reynolds. As the women gasped in shock, he quietly looked down to his food, and then to the deceased. He took another bite of chicken. The next few days- God help them get that far!- would be trying, and he'd need every bit of strength possible.