Chapter Eight

Zircon hauled boxes of groceries into the kitchen, where his father was currently unloading and putting them away. The old man surely had better things to do, but ever since Medjed had cured him of the cancer that had been eating away at his cells, he’d decided on a more hands on approach to living, or so he’d said.

“Did you get the potatoes?” Arthur asked.

“Yeah, Dad. Eighty pounds of them,” Zircon replied, shaking his head.

Honestly, if he never saw a French fry again, it would be too soon.

“Great. Put them in the pantry,” he instructed, and Zircon nodded.

When he returned with the potatoes and a bag of onions, he brought them to the walk-in pantry where they housed roots and dry goods. The kitchen was designed for his mother, and she’d always liked the idea of having an old school storage system, which she believed was better for the food.