The next morning, Micah dragged himself down the staircase, one hand gripping the railing while the other rubbed his eyes. His hair stuck up at odd angles, proof that he had been tossing around half the night. The faint smell of freshly made porridge and toasted bread drifted from the dining room, but even that wouldn't lift his mood.
"Morning," he mumbled as he walked in, shoulders slouched. Without waiting for a reply, he slid into his chair at the long table.
The rest of the Ramsy family was already seated. The atmosphere was solemn, and with Micah's subdued attitude, it only grew heavier.
Jacob felt the tense air becoming more unbearable with every passing second. He glanced at his son from across the table. He cleared his throat. "Micah, do you have time next week?"
Micah reached lazily for the butter knife, spreading a thin layer across his toast. He looked up with a puzzled glance. "Why?"
