“Sweetheart,” said Marilyn, her forehead furrowed in consternation. “Do you really need to take all of this?”
Marshall looked up from a careful survey of the dining room table, currently buried beneath piles of clean laundry, enough food for a small army and a variety of hand-made warding sigils stitched into fluffy dice and air fresheners shaped like trees.
“It’s the middle of summer,” said Edgar, gesturing to a rechargeable million-candlepower spotlight. “And it’s not as though you’ll be camping out there.” He placed a comforting hand on Marshall’s shoulder.
“Lots of kids volunteer with the Meals on Wheels program,” said Marilyn. “I promise, it’s not that scary. I just – is that a chainsaw?”
Marshall pulled it towards him. The freshly-greased blades left a long smear of oil on the white tablecloth beneath.
“I thought some of the old people might need some yard work doing,” he said.
His parents relaxed, a relieved glance passing between them.
“Well,” said Edgar. “That’s very considerate of you. Do you need me to hitch the trailer to the back of the car, in case you need to make a run to the dump?”
“No thanks, Dad,” said Marshall. “That’s what the flamethrower’s for.”
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froodle
