PTSD

Miriam hummed as she set out the plates. Joey thundered down the stairs, but skidded to a halt when he passed the dining room.

“You’re setting the table already?” he asked.

“Grampa’s coming over for dinner, remember?” Miriam stepped back to view her handiwork. “You need to get washed up before he gets here.”

Joey rolled his eyes. “I hate eating with just spoons,” he moaned. “Please tell me you didn’t make steak again this time.”

“You know how he gets around knives and forks, sweetie.”

“The Pixie Wars were a long time ago,” Joey scoffed. “And we won anyway.”