He looked at his hurt finger with a pained expression, blowing on it gently.
Jasy once told him that blowing on a wound should lessen the pain.
Chale Cheney sat obediently on the sofa without causing a ruckus or letting out a word, waiting for his dad and Jasy to come downstairs for lunch.
He was quietly playing with a jigsaw puzzle all by himself.
Twelve o'clock.
Chale Cheney had returned home nearly an hour ago, but there was still no sign of movement in the house.
"Young Master, why don't you have some food first? After you're done eating, you can go up to your room and take a nap, is that alright?" suggested the maid who was in the know, trying to coax Chale Cheney.
"I don't want to." Chale Cheney rejected her suggestion.
Why weren't his dad and Jasy coming downstairs? What were they up to?
He leaned towards the table, stretched out his hand to pick up the telephone receiver, and dialed Sylvan Cheney's number.
The maid was too shocked to say a word.
