The dining table was long enough to land a helicopter on.
Estelle sat in a high-backed velvet chair. Her feet dangled a foot off the floor. To her right sat Alistair. To her left, Eleanor.
Across from her, Harlen was stabbing a napkin with a fork.
The doors to the kitchen swung open. A parade of servers entered. They carried silver platters covered with domes.
The smell hit Estelle first. Roasted chicken. Rosemary. Butter. Rich, heavy scents that made her mouth water and her stomach cramp at the same time.
They lifted the domes.
It was a feast. Golden-skinned chicken, mountains of mashed potatoes with truffle oil, lobster bisque that smelled like the ocean.
Estelle looked down at her place setting. There were four forks. Three spoons. Two knives.
Panic flared.
Which one? Left to right? Right to left?
In the foster home, you got a plastic spoon. If you lost it, you ate with your fingers.
She sat perfectly still, her hands in her lap. She didn't dare move. If she picked the wrong fork, maybe they would send her back.
Alistair was watching her. He saw the way her eyes darted from the silverware to the food.
He didn't say a word about etiquette.
He reached out, grabbed the serving spoon, and scooped a massive pile of mashed potatoes directly onto her plate. Then he picked up a chicken leg with his bare hand and dropped it on top.
"Cutlery is for people who aren't hungry," Alistair announced. He picked up his own chicken leg and took a bite, grease shining on his chin.
The staff looked horrified. Eleanor giggled through her tears.
Arthur smiled. He served Estelle some corn.
Harlen slammed his fork down. "Why does she get the big piece?"
Arthur didn't look up from cutting Estelle's meat. "Because she needs it. And you, son, have had plenty."
He used tongs to drop a large pile of steamed broccoli onto Harlen's plate. Nothing else.
"This is dinner," Arthur said.
"I hate broccoli!" Harlen whined. "This is abuse!"
Estelle stopped chewing. She looked at Harlen. He looked genuinely upset. In her world, food was currency. Food was peace.
She hesitated, then picked up her chicken leg. It was warm and greasy in her hand.
She reached across the table, leaning far over, and offered it to Harlen.
"Here," she whispered. "You can have mine. I'm not... I can eat the broccoli."
Silence fell over the room.
Harlen stared at the chicken leg. He stared at her. He saw the genuine fear in her eyes, the instinct to appease the angry male.
It made him feel small. And Harlen hated feeling small.
He slapped her hand away.
"I don't want your garbage!" he shouted.
The chicken leg flew out of her hand. It hit the white tablecloth, leaving a smear of brown grease, and tumbled onto the floor.
Clatter. Splat.
Estelle gasped. She scrambled off her chair instantly. She dropped to her knees under the table, reaching for the chicken on the rug.
"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" she cried, her voice high and frantic. "I'll clean it! I'll eat it, it's still good! Don't be mad!"
She grabbed the dirty chicken and tried to wipe it on her shirt.
Above her, the sound of a chair scraping violently against the floor.
Arthur was standing. His face was a thundercloud.
"Harlen," Arthur said. His voice was so low the windows rattled. "Get out."
"But-"
"Get. Out. Now. One week grounded. No electronics. No car. Go."
Winston appeared from the shadows, gripping Harlen's shoulder with a firm hand. He marched the protesting boy out of the room.
Under the table, Estelle was shaking, holding the chicken to her chest like a treasure.
A hand appeared in her vision. Alistair.
He wasn't mad. He was weeping silently.
"Oh, my dear," he whispered. He gently pried her fingers open. He took the dirty chicken and tossed it aside. "We have more. We have infinite chicken. You never have to eat off the floor again."
He pulled her out from under the table and lifted her back into her chair.
"Eat," he commanded gently. "Eat until you burst."
Estelle took a bite of potato. It tasted like butter and salt and safety.
