"At night time probably." The immaculate suspicion was confirmed. An unholy benediction for it was a very soft, barely audible sigh that had whispered through her throats entombment. He was more demanding than her own father had been, but the electric neighborhood of her mind that still was lit enough to realize he actually cared, excused it and listened obediently. Inspecting first with her fingers the texture of the top of the bread, it was going to feel like sandpaper shoving itself down her parched throat, she'd thought. Oh well.
"What will you do if I don't listen?" The question was strung up between them like a silver, cardboard painted star in a chintzy funeral play; only somewhat convincing, thematic, and mostly meant for just adornment. He knew she'd listen. The spectre was just curious what creativity he'd come up with for an answer, as she sat up in her seat on her knees to loom over the food and ice.