Dad went out to get the milk and came back with two scars on his upper chin and a brand from the Druid King on his right thigh. He stumbled through the door like it was nothing; face scarred; eyes full of light. Mum and Tega and I were eating dinner. We didn’t notice when he stepped through the door. “Milk’s cold,” Mum said, not taking her eyes away from the TV. These days, she hardly seemed to care.
