United States
Washington
Snohomish
4:00 AM
Maxwell slipped into his heavy yellow raincoat and boots, taking a moment to glance into the nearby mirror. Looking at the pale rounded ginger face that stared back at him. Checking his person to ensure he had his wallet and thermos before shaking his head as he opened the door and slipped out of the house making sure to lock it. Once he had carefully made his way down the icy concrete steps to the gravel driveway he passed the burned-out remains of his father's police cruiser. Grabbing the motorized bike from the garage he unlocked it and slipped on board. Sighing as he began to pedal down the driveway and up onto the nearby cracked road.
Grumbling as he peddled up to speed before pulling the clutch the improvised ethanol engine. After a few moments, it sputtered to life, revving unevenly as he passed the rural homes. Many looking worse for ware compared to his own family home, one place even had several tarps covering the roof in a vain attempt to keep out the rain and snow. Others were badly burned out with similar improvised repairs to keep out the cold. Still many were simply burnt out ruins long abandoned, passing by them always left a solemn feeling in his heart. Turning down another road he motored down into the valley, the saturated dirt and snow having covered much the remains of the street.
Slowing down a bit he started to make his way through, thankfully that his yellow rain smock protected him from the sludge. While it was a bit more precarious he continued to make good time in the darkness of the early morning. Turning his head he glanced at the old Rose Farm, looking up at the old McElhose place. Looking at it you would think that war never happened, it was truly a representation of Scott’s skill as a carpenter. A faint smile grew on Maxes face, he wasn’t much for plants, but the homely look of the place always gave off a comforting aura. The icicles made it look rather idyllic, like something out of a holiday card. Just before it left his sight he saw the light switch on from the master bedroom. Likely the old guy getting ready for his shift at the mill nearby, one of the few businesses to survive the war in the area, no small part thanks to him. Sadly the remainder of his journey wasn’t much compared to that place. Mainly damaged farmsteads, frozen saturated fields, and totaled vehicles left to rust on the side of the road.
Thankfully he saw the old bridge up ahead, the engorged Snohomish River scarcely three feet below the old ironwork. After motoring across he parked his bike at the Northern Pacific Railroad Depot. The recreation of the historic building had seen better days, the yellow paint peeling off the wood, with some of the shingles having fallen off the roof. Chaining the bike to the signpost he gazed over the remains of the once vibrant antiquing town. Like his rural neighborhood, many buildings were ruined beyond repair, scorch marks of fires still covering the old brick despite the heavy rains and snowfall. Others had plastic and boards covering the windows, faint wisps of smoke leaking out of chimneys of the buildings. While the streets were lined with vans and dilapidated RVs filled with refugees who had lost their rural homes.
Making his way behind the old building he made his way onto the improvised dock. A sigh of relief escaping his mouth seeing the boat was still there. The heavy chains and slightly rusted lock looking like they hadn’t been touched since he left them last night. Leaning down on the rickety dock he started to untie the twine that held the tarp in place, protecting the boat's inner hull and engine from the heavy rains. Quickly balling up the tarp before shoving it into one of the lockers onboard. The vessel was a bit over 25 feet and made of old iron and wood. With little in the way of luxuries beyond some rough removable benches forming rows, being split by the slightly rusted antique engine resting on the center of the boat with a deep wooden coffin box just before it. The tiller waiting in the back of the vessel was likely the most modern thing on it, having been carved by Scott after he found it.
Opening another locker he pulled out an old cowbell, clutching it in his hand he stepped back off the boat. Passing the rail depot making his way past Andy’s Fish house. Memories of visiting Chucks Seafood Grotto with his mates filling the back of his mind. Andy was a nice enough fellow, but he could never hold a candle to the original sea fair pirate. At least he kept the recipes, though the offerings were a bit slimmer lately. Some of the windows were still busted, with plastic and cardboard sealing the holes to help keep the chill-out. The sign like many other things in town was still partially burned with a partial crude paint job done to keep the name legible. He could just see a lantern being lit inside, hinting that Andy had likely just woken up to begin getting the damaged restaurant ready for business.
Once he passed the building and made his way down 2nd street he inhaled deeply and started to ring the cowbell. “Ferry to Seattle leaves in 40 minutes!” He bellowed as he made his way through town, his boots crunching through the snow-covered streets loudly.
Already some people started to slip out of the buildings and cars. The familiar face of his childhood friend Andson slipping out of the back of his old faded brown 1980s Econoline van, carefully shutting the door behind him. Likely not wanting to wake up his husband who was still sleeping inside. Nodding his head he started to make his trek to the dock while Max continued on his way, stopping by a few restaurants to grab small canisters of used oil. Eventually doing a loop around the main streets of the town, making his way back to the dock where little more than 25 people were waiting on the shore. Stepping onto the dock people watched him load up the fuel in the darkness setting them near the back where he sat.
He glanced back at them for a moment before lighting the torch and pressing the flame against the engine cylinder. Letting it heat up for a few minutes while he checked the remaining fuel in the steel tank. Seeing the dipstick come back about half dry, wiping it off he tossed it back into the locker. Inhaling he grasped the crank, attaching it to the engine, making sure to keep his thumb with his fingers as he gave it a strong quick turn, earning a sputter and groan in response. It took five tries before the engine finally rumbled to life, gently vibrating the hull of the boat. Switching off the torch he stepped out of the boat back into the dock.
“Alright you know the deal 8 dollars per person to Seattle, anyone caught trying to get around the price can just wait by the shore or in the river!” He bellowed as the group started to line up. As they slowly marched handing him the crumpled bills he couldn’t help but feel his mood further soured by their sorry state. Many had jackets held together with duck tape or crude stitches. Some had gloves with so much wear and tear they had more holes than Swiss cheese. Others didn’t even have that luxury, instead burring their numb hands into their jackets, attempting to protect themselves from frostbite.
The passengers were of varying ages, from teenagers trying to help out at home, to elderly residents hoping to find work to avoid starvation. Once they were all on board, he slipped the stack of bills into his jacket deep into an improvised pocket before climbing into the back of the boat. It took a moment to unfasten the padlocks holding the boat to the dock. While holding the chain he grasped the old transmission, pulling into gear. The engine slowing for a moment, worrying him it would stop before returning to speed. Tossing the chains back onto the dock he pulled the loaded boat away from the dock.
The mood on board was far from singing shanty’s to pass the time, with the scenery of the river doing little to help. Through the darkness, they could just make up shacks and tents lining the river. With more than a few of the residents fishing along the banks in hopes of catching something to fill themselves. The lanterns onboard drawing their attention, causing their eyes to briefly light up like candles before glancing back down into the murky depths of the water. Most onboard the boat kept their eyes firmly planted on the floor of the vessel, unable to look at the depressing surroundings.
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United States
Washington
Pacific Sound less than 1 mile from Seattle
5:43 AM
In the darkness of the morning, Max could just make out the faint lights coming from the port city. The faint outlines of the skyline could just be seen as they approached the hastily constructed concrete dock before Pike Place Market. Puttering the vessel over he quickly grasped one of the iron cleats, lashing the boat to the dock. Andson thankfully handled lashing the front of the boat, once it was properly secured the passengers started to make their way off the small vessel.
“Alright you know the deal, I leave at 8:30 PM, anyone not back by that time or with cash to pay for the return trip will be left behind.” He bellowed as they all finished disembarking, faint nods just barely seen through the thick clothes. Once the last person was off he did a brief inspection of the boat to ensure nothing of value was left. A force of habit rather than a necessity, the only thing most of his passengers had of value was their IDs. Once he was finished he grasped a bike lock from a locker and chained the boat to the dock. It wasn’t the most secure, but it was enough to deter would-be thieves. That is if the old engine didn’t turn them off first.
Stepping off the boat he started to slowly make his way to the historic marketplace. He was hit by the strong smells of fish and unwashed locals, a smell he was used to by now as he maneuvered his way through the tents, drug addicts, and makeshift shelters. Making his way up the steps into the fish market his eyes centered on a man behind the crudely reconstructed counter in a dirty apron.
“Mornin Max” The large man tiredly spoke, likely still not quite awake. “Here for the bait?...”
“Mhm.” Max dug out a few ones from his jacket while the fishmonger pulled out a bucket of bad fish.
“Here you go... happy fishing.” He said without much mirth, taking the handful of ones while Max heaved the bucket off the counter.
Making his way back down to the docks Max would occasionally stop to glance at the improvised stalls. The inventories weren’t anything too impressive, homemade hats, salvaged goods from ruined stops, the occasional home-canned fish. Many had items of... questionable legality, but the police could scarcely stop a jaywalker these days. He briefly eyed one of the tarp stalls, eyes caught on a stack of old Xbox games. Nostalgic memories wafting up before he squashed them back down, quickly picking up his pace back to the docks. Seeing the ice boy making his rounds on the dock he motioned him over pulling out a small stack of cash. Slipping into his boat he paid the boy and started to heave bags of ice onboard, tossing them to the wood floor.
Once he had finished loading the bags of ice he set the bucket of smelly fish onto planks before opening one of the lockers. Taking a moment to pour the old cooking oil into the tank, once it was properly filled he recapped the canister and slipped it back into the locker. It took less time to start the engine this time around, thankfully still hot from the long journey to Seattle. In less than 10 minutes he was motoring away from the dock just in time to see the sunrise in the distance.
Glancing over the skyline the condition of the city only became more clear. All the signs of war still remained despite it having ended years ago, ruined buildings, scorch marks from fires, busted windows exposing what was once centers of business to elements. But the one thing that stood as a constant reminder of the Conversion War... the broken spire of the Space Needle. Scarcely half of it remanded standing, with the rest of it having crushed much of the Science Center during the collapse. Once a popular tourist spot it had become a makeshift memorial for all the lives lost, much of the base was covered with photographs and candles left by grieving locals, himself included.
Turning his head away he focused his attention on Blake Island, the thick fog making the deserted park look more than a bit ominous. When he was younger he had visited the island more than a few times with his friends. He wasn’t much for boating back then, but it was rather fun to explore the park almost like it was some sort of lost land. Nowadays people rarely visited, leaving the old campsites to become overgrown. Pulling the boat to the shore, he tossed out a mushroom anchor before inhaling deeply. Closing his eyes he waded through the shallow water for a few yards before reaching the beach.
Making his way through the forest he eyed one of the trees where a notch had been hacked into the wood. Counting his steps as he made his way deeper into the woods he stopped before a pile of evergreen branches. Slowly bending down he dug his fingers into the dirt and snow grasping a hidden sheet of plywood and pulled up revealing a cache of fishing gear. Looking it all over he grabbed the metal crab traps first heaving then over his back before slowly trekking back to the beach.
Just as he waded back out into the water and tossed the metal crates into the boat he spotted something on the beach. Raising an eyebrow he waded back, from the distance it just looked like a piece of driftwood... as he got closer he could see some crabs picking at it, maybe a harbor seal then? Once he was less than two yards away his breath stalled in his throat, the smell was awful, but nothing he wasn’t used too.
Even with the barnacles covering the tarnished metal, there was no mistaking it... that was a Royal Guard corpse. Spotting a stick nearby, he grasped the driftwood biting his lip trying to suppress the flashbacks. With some of the morning light just peaking through the fog he could see the remains of the unnatural looking bright coat and mane of the creature. Pressing the stick into its side he rolled it over, revealing a gored face, a few small crabs scattering away from their meal.
“Keep looking, theirs bound to be humans here, I can smell the heathens stench in this place.” He tried to shake the memory of the hoof steps creaking over the basement ceiling out of his mind.
“Hey, Captain! I found a picture of the monkeys, looks like there was a whole zoo worth of them here! Look at this one! Real ugly son of a mule, look at that lardflanks red rat's nest of a mane!” There taunting laughter filling his mind.
“Looks like they ran off, see if there any valuables and trash the place. Make sure they know there’s nothing to come back to.” The shattering of porcelain and clashing of pans echoed.
Coming back to reality his face formed into a sneer as he started to raise the stock above his head slamming it back down onto the corpse. Beating the rotten flesh off the brittle bones, sending bits and pieces flying into the air and onto his clothes. The wet sickening smacks of the wood against the remains of the pony filled his ears until he stopped. Hands shaking as he clutched the stick, staring into its rotten face he raised the stick one last time... before stabbing it through the skull. Falling backward into the sand he wheezed gasping for hair clutching his chest. Trying to soothe the painful palpitations with his breathing exercises. After a few moments, he looked back at the corpse, noticing a few seagulls and ravens in the distance. Struggling back to his feet he slowly sodded off, leaving them to their feast.
He loaded up the remaining fishing gear in a thick mental fog, once he had placed the twine covered jugs into the boat, removing the bench’s into the stash to make room. Once he was finished he started up the engine once more puttering away from the deserted island. Turning his head for a brief moment to see a variable feeding frenzy of sea birds and scavengers working to pick the carcass clean.
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Untied States
Washington
Skagit Bay
8:13 AM
Tossing the last crab cage into the water he leaned against the side of his boat catching his breath. The chill in his boots just barely have subsided, keeping him close to the engine in an attempt to warm himself for a minute. Making his way back to the tiller he sat down, pulling the first of the 30 jute-wrapped jugs over to himself. Grasping the spool of fishing line and attaching a hook to it. Taking a small piece of the remaining bait, he speared it with the hook before tying a slip knot to one of the cleats. He would continue to bait the lines attached to the other jugs attaching them to one another until he had a long chain of them trailing behind him. Slowing the engine to a crawl he leaned back in his seat yawning a bit. Turning his head he watched the Arthur Floss slowly pull a barge of logs through the Sound. The tug boat was over 100 years old, before the war, it was originally an exhibit at the Wooden Boat Center. When things got rough, they took whoever they could save and chugged the vessels up north. No one knows for sure where they went... but when they came back they were greeted with a very different Seattle.
The Equestrians torched many of the vessels in the ports and docks, crippling the city’s trade and tourism for years to come. A boat was a very valuable thing to have now, especially with many of the bridges still out. If you had a larger boat you could make decent money shipping supplies around. The biggest issue was getting enough fuel for them with the prices as they were. Since they returned the Centers historic fleet was pressed into service to help the ailing state. While the Arthur Floss found work with a makeshift logging operation, the MV Lotus and SS Virginia V ran routes around the Sound. Picking up stranded locals and moving them to Seattle to look for work, before taking them back at the end of the day. Even the old Duwamish fireboat had found work as an improvised water carrier and occasional fire suppression vessel. Watching the tug sail by he waved his hand to the crew who waved back tiredly.
Even from the distance, he could see the haunted looks in those men’s eyes. They were the original crew that sailed away from the Second Great Seattle Fire. It wasn’t a secret they were forced to flee while in the middle of boarding, leaving numerous people behind. Opinions about them were mixed at best, were they hero’s for saving those onboard... or were the murderers for leaving those people ashore at the mercy of the New Foals? Even he wasn’t sure, but even now they rarely left the ships for long, their presence was too controversial in the city. But it didn’t mean he had to be just another angry face. After awhile they vanished into the fog leaving Max alone with his thoughts again.
“I-it’s so cold....” He remembered his mother’s teeth chattering in the basement.
“Snohomish hasn’t had a winter like this in decades...” The stern voice of his father spoke. “I can’t tell you the last time the temperature went below 16 degrees... let alone below zero...”
Max suppressed a shiver as he slowly turned the boat watching the ice-covered coast pass him by. Weather in Washington wasn’t ever something to be cheery about, if you asked anyone to describe it 9 times out of 10 they would just say rainy. But since Convergence it seemed like things got so much worse. With freezing rains and powerful snowstorms battering the state, it seemed like they scarcely got a spring or summer anymore. Alaska and Canada had it even worse, news from those areas told stories of miles of ice flows, entire ports frozen in time, even ice breakers struggled to make a dent in the problem. Stories of people being found frozen solid in the middle of the road were trickling down from the north. They were even finding marine mammals seemly frozen alive out at sea.
“We’re almost out of food...” He remembered his sister's voice as he poured himself a cup of soup from his thermos. Starting at the thick bacon tomato vegetable concoction before bringing it to his lips.
“Someone’s is going to have to go out and scavenge....” He remembered the sound of his father squeezing his pistol.
Finishing his cup of soup he set the thermos back down and glanced backward to check on the jugs. It was an unconventional method of fishing, but after looking through the Dangerous Book for Boys, it seemed like it might work for his purpose. It took a few tries to get it right, but now it was a great source of supplemental income. Especially once he found those old crab traps up on Jetty Island.
Selling his catch wasn’t too hard, it was just knowing how to negotiate, and more importantly, sell out before the police did their rounds. Having to pay them off could really put a strain on your haul, but it was better than the alternative. Glancing back he noticed several of the jugs were now bobbing up and down, signaling he had caught something. Pulling into neutral, he started to pull the jugs up to the boat. Grasping one of the jugs he started to pull up the line revealing a black rockfish attempting to escape clutching it in his hand he lifted it out of the water tossing it onboard before rebating the hook and moving onto the next finding a copper one. On the third jug, he watched in surprise seeing it vanish under the water for a moment before bouncing back up. Grasping it tightly he was nearly pulled overboard by the strength of the catch. Heaving with all his might a Ling Cod slammed into his jacket before landing on the deck. It wasn’t a practically large specimen, just scarcely 3 foot in length, but feisty. Digging out the hook was fairly difficult but he managed to hold it down before rebaiting it and casting the jug back out. On the last jug, he found a Cabezon, being careful to avoid its spines he tossed it along with the other fish. After casting off the last jug he sat there and watched them flop for a bit before heading to the coffin. Grabbing one of the bags of ice he poured it into the container making sure to have plenty on the bottom before he began tossing the fish in with it. Once they touched the ice they seemed to go into shock, though pouring a layer above them likely didn’t help. Just a few more hours of this and he’d be able to sell... maybe even have something to bring home.
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United States
Washington
Seattle
Pier 57
5:57 PM
Max leaned back in his boat as he watched people slowly shuffle about on the dock. Occasionally stopping to ask for the price before leaving, likely to compare it to others. Steadily his crab traps and coffin were emptied while the stack of cash in his jacket swelled just a bit more. Leaning against the tiller he noticed a little girl staring at one of the smaller rockfish. Leaning up he saw just what kind of sorry state she was in, filthy cheeks, ratty curly hair, and an outfit that was several sizes too large for her. The jacket almost looked like an overcoat on her, it was unmistakable, two words floated in his mind. War Orphan... the police did sweeps frequently to try and smoke them out, shipping them East. But many kids didn’t want to leave the state... as much as a cesspit as it was... it was their home. So many would try and avoid the police as much as they could, some holding onto the slim chance their parents would turn up.
Running the numbers through his head Max sighed grasping the small fish and tossed it to the little girl. “Here... make sure it cook it, now make yourself scarce... the Blue boys are coming....” He mumbled through his numb lips. Motioning for her to get out of there, noticing the police were slowly making their way onto the crowded dock.
The child nodded her head vanishing into the crowds of people. Just as the police started to make their way over Max started to heat up the engine once again with the blow torch. He had nearly finished selling the fish for the day, only have a few crabs and two Cabezon. It wasn’t worth sticking around to try and sell them if he had to pay the local cops to do so. Watching them at the far end of the dock he watched the two boys in blue begin their shakedown with an elderly clam digger. The poor guy attempting to haggle with them before his face turned white while the officers smiled widely. He practically threw a stack of bills at them in fright which one of them caught. This would continue as they steadily made their way down the dock, biting his lip Max started to try and start the engine, unsure if it was hot enough yet. Normally he would have left before they arrived, but they seemed to have come early today.
They were scarcely four boats away before he got the engine started chugging, he just cast off as they noticed him leaving. One of them cursing while the other watched him putter away, a knowing look on his face signaling it might be a while until Max could use that dock again. Swallowing Max turned his head back forward heading back out to the Sound deciding he should go dump his fishing gear, maybe relax a bit in the solitude of Blake Island until it was time to pick up his passengers.
The trip through the fog wasn’t much to speak about, the silence out here was deafening. But there was a certain peace to it, the faint sounds of the waves lapping against the bow of the boat as the occasional snowflake sizzled against the hot bulb engine were almost like white noise. Closing his eyes for a moment he just savored it, he might not have been much for sea in the past... but things changed... a lot. Opening his eyes once again he saw the thickly forested island approaching. Time just seemed to fly while he was out here... which was a blessing as much as it was a curse. Pulling the boat up the beach he tossed out the mushroom anchor again. Wadding back to the beach took a bit longer than he would have liked while carrying the crab cage. But it was better than slipping headfirst into the water. Once he reached the sandy beach he nearly stepped on the familiar carcass. Much of it having been picked clean by the seabirds and ravens, leaning much of the shattered bones exposed to the elements. Slowly moving his boot out of the way he just stared into those empty eye sockets for awhile.
He wasn’t sure what came over him, just looking at the corpse he beat left him feeling so... empty... shaking his head he walked past the remains, letting the rising tide take it. Dumping his fishing gear didn’t take long thankfully, soon enough he was sitting on some driftwood looking about at the Sound, the fog having just cleared enough to let him view the city again. The skyline wasn’t as bright as it was when he was a boy... he could just barely make out dim lights showing through the windows. Sometimes he wondered if they would ever be that bright again.
Reaching back into his jacket he pulled out a flask slowly unscrewing the lid. Raising it in a mock toast before tossing it back into his throat, the strong grain alcohol making his eyes water as he swallowed it down. Shuttering a few times he just watched the waves slowly roll over the bones of the fallen guard. Occasionally sipping from his flask while he watched it vanish under the murky water. He couldn’t be sure how long he sat there looking out at the Sound, but glancing at his watch his eyes widened, scarcely 40 minutes until pick up.
Muttering he struggled back up to his seat, slowly making his way back out to the boat. Heating the engine back up took longer than he would have liked, but he wasn’t willing to waste fuel just to leave it running. After five minutes he was storing his boat back to Seattle, while the engine wasn’t picky about fuel, it’s speed left much to be desired. Glancing back at his watch worriedly he wondered if he would make it back before 8:30.
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United States
Washington
Seattle
Pike Place Market Docks
8:27 PM
Just as he started to pull into the dock he saw the familiar passengers, waiting for him. As he approached the smell was what hit him first, suppressing the urge to gag while he docked. Standing up he held out his hand, while they boarded bills would steadily find their way into his jacket, about 8 dollars each this time. Thankfully their hands were relatively clean, but the smell told him everything. They likely took up work down in the old tunnels clearing rubble, a lot of sewage got spilled down there... but with the local economy as it was they couldn’t afford to be picky. Steadily the boat sank into the water as the weight of them all pushed it downwards. Andson rushed through the crowd wheezing loudly, Max gave him a moment to catch his breath before taking a handful of crumpled bills.
With the last passengers aboard, Max pulled the boat away from the dock. In less than 20 minutes they watched the remains of Seattle vanish into the fog as they made headway back to the Snohomish River. With the dreary surroundings, Max wasn’t sure what possessed him but he opened his mouth and started to sing. “This is my country; God gave it to me; I will protect it, ever keep it free. Small towns and cities rest here in the sun, filled with our laughter, thy will be done.” He sang sadly.
To his surprise, a few onboard started to sing along. “Washington my home, where ever I may roam. This is my land, my native land, Washington, my home. Our verdant forest green, caressed by silvery stream. From mountain peak to fields of wheat, Washington, my home.”
After awhile nearly the whole boat was singing the old state anthem. “There's peace you feel and understand, in this, our own beloved land. We greet the day with head held high, and forward ever is our cry. We'll happy ever be as people always free. For you and me a destiny, Washington my home.” As he sang with them he couldn’t help but let a few tears leak out of the corners of his eyes. Despite everything, this place was their home for better or worse they refused to leave.
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Max struggled through the slush on his bike, having been unable to get the engine started with freezing night air. Leaving him to slowly pedal his way home the old fashioned way. Naturally, this took much longer but he could already see the faint lights shining from the kitchen. Likely his mother getting dinner ready before his sister finished her soft at the sawmill and his father retired from patrol back in town. Pulling his bike to the garage he made his way inside, his mother jumping at the sound of his heavy footsteps.
“O-oh it’s just you dear...” The rotund woman looked back from her camping stove while she fried up some potatoes and canned mackerel.
“Sorry, mom I didn’t mean to frighten you...” Max spoke making his way to the dining room, tossing his stack of bills into an antique cookie jar.
“Have a good day at work?...” She turned his attention back to the skillet.
“Guess so... Seattle isn’t looking much better though....” He mumbled sitting down in one of the wooden chairs at the table. Glancing up at the clear plastic roof panels above him, a temporary fix until they could afford to fix the massive hole in the roof. Content to just watch the snowfall upon it and melt while he rested.
“Things will get better in time Maxwell...” His mother didn’t sound as optimistic as she would have liked.
“I hope so...” He said hearing his father and sister push the door open. Slipping off the old sheriff's hat his father took a moment to run his large hands through his greying hair. While his sister kept on her black threadbare wool cap.
They didn’t so much sit as collapse into their seats at the table while his mother started to plate up dinner and some warm tea. Seeing them always left knots in his stomach, his father was supposed to be retired by now with a nice pension. Meanwhile, his sister was supposed to have a steady job after having gone to college. But things didn’t work out that way... his father's pension and his sister's dreams had died in the market collapse.
Neither one was paid particularly well either, the town being broke they could scarcely afford to pay his father anything. But he did the job simply because no one else would, his sister on the other hand was one of the lucky ones who managed to get a job at the sawmill. It was barely minimum wage, but the work was steady and she didn’t have to risk going to the city to look for temp work cleaning up rubble and the sewers.
Looking up as his mom hobbled around the table setting the plates of fried potatoes and mackerel he smiled faintly. Once everyone had their plate she took her seat next to her husband clasping her hands together. “Let us pray...” she spoke softly.
Max, his father, and sister soon clasped their hands together closing their eyes. “Bless us, O Lord, and these Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty, through Christ our Lord. Amen.” Once they finished the short prayer they began to eat.