I looked at the bowl. My mouth watered. I pushed the eggs a few inches away from me and then folded my arms.
Jamie frowned. "Fine," he said, and shoved his own bowl across the counter. "You don't eat, I don't eat." His stomach grumbled audibly. He folded his arms across his chest.
We stared at each other for two long minutes, both our stomachs rumbling as we inhaled the smell of the eggs. Every now and then, he would peek down at the food out of the corner of his eye. That's what beat me-the longing look in his eyes.
"Fine," I huffed. I slid his bowl back to him and then retrieved my own. He waited until I took the first bite to touch his. I stifled a moan as the taste registered on my tongue. I knew the cooled, rubbery eggs weren't the best thing I'd ever tasted, but that's how it felt. This body lived for the present.
Jamie had a similar reaction. And then he started shoveling the food into his mouth so fast it seemed he didn't have time to breathe. I watched him to make sure he didn't choke.
I ate more slowly, hoping that I'd be able to convince him to eat some of mine when he was done.
That was when, with our minor standoff over and my stomach satisfied, I finally noticed the atmosphere in the kitchen.
I would have expected, with the excitement of eggs for breakfast after months of monotony, more of a feeling of celebration. But the air was somber, the conversations all whispered. Was this a reaction to the scene last night? I scanned the room, trying to understand.
People were looking at me, a few here and there, but they weren't the only ones talking in serious whispers, and the others paid me no mind at all. Besides, none of them seemed angry or guilty or tense or any of the other emotions I was expecting.
No, they were sad. Despair was etched on every face in the room.
Sharon was the last person I noticed, eating in a distant corner, keeping to herself as usual. She was so composed as she mechanically ate her breakfast that at first I didn't notice the tears dripping in streaks down her face. They fell into her food, but she ate as if she were beyond noticing.
"Is something wrong with Doc?" I whispered to Jamie, suddenly afraid. I wondered if I was being paranoid-maybe this had nothing to do with me. The sadness in the room seemed to be part of some other human drama from which I'd been excluded. Was this what was keeping everyone busy? Had there been an accident?
Jamie looked at Sharon and sighed before he answered me. "No, Doc's fine."
"Aunt Maggie? Is she hurt?"
He shook his head.
"Where's Walter?" I demanded, still whispering. I felt a gnawing anxiety as I thought of harm befalling one of my companions here, even those who hated me.
"I don't know. He's fine, I'm sure."
I realized now that Jamie was just as sad as everyone else here.
"What's wrong, Jamie? Why are you upset?"
Jamie looked down at his eggs, eating them slowly and deliberately now, and did not answer me.
He finished in silence. I tried to pass him what was left in my bowl, but he glowered so fiercely that I took it back and ate the rest without any more resistance.
We added our bowls to the big plastic bin of dirty dishes. It was full, so I took it from the counter. I wasn't sure what was going on in the caves today, but dishes ought to be a safe occupation.
Jamie came along beside me, his eyes alert. I didn't like that. I wouldn't allow him to act as my bodyguard, if the necessity arose. But then, as we made our way around the edge of the big field, my regular bodyguard found me, so it became a moot point.
Ian was filthy; light brown dust covered him from head to toe, darker where it was wet with his sweat. The brown streaks smeared across his face did not disguise the exhaustion there. I was not surprised to see that he was just as down as everyone else. But the dust did make me curious. It was not the purple black dust inside the caves. Ian had been outside this morning.
"There you are," he murmured when he saw us. He was walking swiftly, his long legs cutting the distance with anxious strides. When he reached us, he did