Jacques shook his head as he watched Kris leave. Dirt? he thought. This is no joking matter - I'm starving to death here! Jacques was sure that if he didn't get some food soon, his stomach would start eating itself.
The bright colours of the sunset were beginning to fade and night was falling. It used to be quite common for Jacques' dad to stay out after dark, back when Jacques' mum died, but that was years ago now; it's rare for his dad to stay out this late nowadays.
No need to worry, he tried to convince himself as he gathered his piece of wood and his knife from the veranda. He can look after himself.
Jacques headed inside the house. He looked through the cupboards, trying to find something he could eat. There was half a loaf of stale bread, some salted meat and a few apples from the nearby orchard. He grabbed one of the apples and bit into it. It was soft and a little floury, but he was so hungry that it tasted like heaven.
He took a seat at the dining table, putting his feet up on the surface that had been so carefully crafted by his dad. He was tempted to start whittling at the edges - he was sure he could make a lovely plaited pattern stretch around the tabletop's perimeter - but he decided against it; he was sure his dad wouldn't like it.
Where is he? he thought, looking out at the dim light and slowly working his way around the apple. When he was done, he stood again and opened the door, ready to toss the core out into the night. He nearly threw it directly at his dad's face.
He stepped aside for his dad to enter the house before chucking the core into the garden and closing the door behind them. 'Where'd you get to, Dad?' Jacques asked.
'Just up the coast; nowhere special,' his dad replied.
'But it's really late - did you bring back a big catch?'
Jacques' dad showed Jacques a pair of dirty, empty hands. 'Does it look like I brought back a big catch?' he spat. He passed Jacques, opened a cupboard in the kitchen and found a bottle of old whiskey. He poured himself a glass, downed it, and poured himself another.
Jacques eyed his whittling, which he had left on the table. He knew his father would not approve of how he spent his day, so as subtly as possible he shuffled to the table and hid the items behind his back.
'I'm sorry you didn't have a good day, Dad,' Jacques said. 'I'm exhausted. I think I might head to bed.'
Without waiting for a reply, Jacques quickly retreated to his bedroom and shut the door. It was still early, but he didn't want to get on his dad's bad side, particularly if he was going to start drinking, and just being in the same room as his dad meant that he was on his bad side. They never did get along.
Jacques put his whittling in a box that he kept beneath his bed before lying on the bedspread. He stared at the ceiling, thinking about the stories his mother used to tell him. Knights riding Chocobos across the countryside, solidiers fighting wars in the mountains, and pirates exploring the seas. As the night drew on, the sound of his father pacing back and forth across the floorboards gave the house a steady heartbeat that lulled him into sleep.