The Brigman and Brooks families had crowded around the table that normally would seat only seat six people, but with the addition of a lawn chair, neatly fit the seven of them.

“Do you want to say grace?” Mrs Brooks wanted to know from the visitors at her table.

Mister Brigman shook his head and answered, “We don’t even go to church.”

There was a moment of silence, where the Brigman family watched the Brooks with bated breath, as if they were expecting to be kicked out then and there.

“Well then,” Mister Brooks said, “Let’s eat.”

He glanced at his wife before adding, “I’d say grace, but I hate when my food gets cold. Besides, God’s ears should probably be reserved for people with more pressing issues.”

Mrs Brooks shook her head, clearly displeased with her husband’s cavalier attitude to the Lord, let alone sharing it with stranges.

Tara gathered none of this. She was staring at the dish in the center of the table. The steam still danced above the brown-flecked orange-reddish cuisine. Tara wondered if suddenly catching religion was worrth the extra few minutes that would keep her away from the casserole.

Her mother made a face that made it quite clear she knew what Tara was thinking, though she had splastered a smile over it just as quick, then ladled Tara’s share onto her plate.

“So who’s your team?” Tara heard her father ask.

“My what now?” Mister Brigman answered.

Tara didn’t hear, or care to hear, the rest of the conversation. She needed her full attention to what appeared to be a mountain of food in front of her. Even though she’d regularly eaten it and was aware it wouldn’t kill her, she picked up her fork, hesitating as long as she could without getting scolded.

She closed her eyes and stuck her fork in the mushy meal, trying not to eat so slow that her mother would notice, but also not give the impression she liked it.

Very deliberately she brought the eggplant to her tongue, slightly stuck it out and pushed the food against it, only to have a wave of revulsion wash over her.

She shuddered visibly, then simply opened her mouth, put the food in, chewed as much as was necessary to get it down and swallowed, mechanically starting the process of working as much as she could, with the added benefit of tasting as little as possible, as fast as possible without being scolded for her table manners.

There was a cough from the other side of the table, which Tara pretended not to hear, still making sure she’d clean her plate without tasting anything.

“Tara,” her father rumbled, a warning of more coming, though he never got to finish his sentence.

The phone rang.

Mister Brooks stood up and answered, greeting whoever was on the end jovially, after which the conversation devolved into little more than grunts and nods that the caller couldn’t see. Barely a minute later, mister Brooks thanked the caller, hung up and turned his attention to his wife.

“Can you drive Tara tomorrow? I have to pick up and old Buick…”

“But…”

“It’s mint! Going to make a killing on it.”

Mrs Brooks sighed, then simply relented, disappointed her day off was being taken away, by a car of all things, but she soon brigthened, possibly with the idea of going shopping in her mind.

“Tara, chew your food,” she said tersely, before returning to her conversation with the Brigmans that had drifted to television shows after sports turned out to be a dud.

Tara managed to reach the final bite and was glad to have it over with. She triumphantly placed her knife and fork on the plate, which was when her mother caught her eye.

“Do you want…” she said and Tara already started shaking her head.

“...Seconds,” the woman finished, clearly intending to punish Tara for her poor table manners with another helping of the hated meal.

“No thanks, mom…”

“But,” Mrs Brooks started, though she too was interrupted by the phone.

She sighed, got up and answered.

“This is she. Oh, Kitty? I see… I see… I see… Yeah, I got you.”

She hung up the phone took place at the table and gave Tara a slightly apologetic look.

“Sorry, honey,” she said, “I have to work tomorrow. I can’t drive you.”

“It’s not far from the hospital!” Tara said hastily, “I can come with you!”

“I have to start at six, dear…”

“That’s fine. I’ll read a book in the waiting room!”

“… Okay, but you have to set your own alarm. I’m not waking you up.”

“In that case, may I be excused?”

Mrs Brtooks raised a brow.

“I want to shower before bed…”

Mrs Brooks considered the question, then shrugged and let her go.

“Remember, we have to leave at five so…”

“Set the alarm for four. Got it.”

Tara stood up, mumbled her goodbyes and goodnights, then disappeared up the stairs.

Half an hour of warm water later, Tara sank down at her desk, now dressed in pajamas and bathrobe, taking out the notebook to continue A’rat’s story.

“The sorceror Swile’s nefa…” she started and immediately stopped writing to check the dictionary. After doing so, she finished the sentence.

“Nefarious plan to stop A’rat from reaching the treasure trove of books was foiled. His plan had been a fool’s plan. Tara’s hardened stomach would not be deterred by simple poison. But, Swile also planned to thwart her plans by taking away her….”

She put the penc down and stared at the paper. The word ‘transportation’ came to mind, but it seemed shallow. She sighed, stuck on how she’d have to fit the concept of cars into her world. Carriages worked, but A’rat probably wouldn’t travel with those. She sighed, decided it could wait and with the sun still shining through the window, she went to bed.