1170 / 1667 — faaantastic.
There was a clattering from just behind him. “Is there seriously no more turkey in this house?” Hawthorn exclaimed, incredulous. She’d given up on her cereal—the attention span of a gnat, that girl—and was now rummaging through the refrigerator in search of something to pack for lunch.
Johnny winced; he’d forgotten to replace the turkey he’d made a sandwich of yesterday. “Probably not. I think I ate that.” Hawthorn ignored him and continued scanning the refrigerator, only growing more frustrated as she realized how hopeless it was.
“Well, motherfucker!”
Mama Cass made an indignant noise, then swallowed. “Language!” she warned, raising her voice and an accusatory finger. Hawthorn glanced up at her once, only slightly cowed.
“Son of a bastard,” the girl amended; then closed the door, walking off and up the stairs. Mama Cass rolled her eyes, shaking her head helplessly.
