The Incident, Part I
It was a day that started like most other days in the small home of one stern not-quite miller, one ghostly knitter, and one young bicycle pedaler. There was flavorless stew from the night before and, on this particular morning, there were even a couple of eggs. The mother boiled water for the last bit of dry coffee grounds in the small tin above the ice box. The coffee was not good. It was yet another of the flavorless, water-based dishes in the mother's repertoire, but it was coffee and there was at least some magic in that. The father scowled at a story he was reading in the morning paper and grumbled something distasteful about politicians and the state of the economy. In truth, the father could only actually read about half of the words on the page having received an education only through the 3rd grade and, of that half, only comprehended an even smaller percentage. The young pedaler saw that the paper was something his father put on, like a costume. He had already noticed ...