Scott's head pounded as he blinked against the morning light streaming through the kitchen window. He dragged himself to the dining table, where his parents sat in a peculiar, tense silence.
The table, typically a comforting sight with its carefully laid-out silverware and matching mugs, felt off this morning.
His mother had prepared the usual, a steaming stack of pancakes, bowls of fresh-cut fruit, and a pitcher of orange juice, but there was a stiffness in the air that made Scott's stomach tighten.
His mother watched him with tight, concerned eyes as he poured himself a glass of juice, her gaze flickering down to his wrist, and he could almost feel the question she was holding back.
Meanwhile, his father barely looked up from the newspaper, yet Scott caught him stealing a glance every so often. The tension seemed to pulse through the room, creeping into Scott's own thoughts, still hazy from last night's drinks.
