When I woke up, the sky was full of fish.
I spent some minutes at the bedroom window, just staring up at the sky. I was amazed, of course, but far from pleased. I had an unsettling feeling that something was deeply wrong, that the fish were merely a symptom of a much graver concern.
Finally, seeing that there was nothing else for it, I got dressed and went downstairs. Matilda had breakfast on the table, and I thanked her for it as I sat down. I picked up a piece of toast, found a knife, and stabbed it into the quivering pile of jelly on the dish. I smeared the red sugary paste onto my heated, dried bread. The faint scrape of the metal blade over the rough surface was pleasing to my ears.
After I had taken a few bites of toast and some sips of coffee, Heather spoke. “Some sunrise this morning,” she said. Heather always made it a point to catch the sunrise at least a couple times a week.
“They’ve been there since dawn, then?” I asked.
Heather nodded. “Since before dawn, actually.”
“What do you think it means?” asked Sara quietly.
“It means trouble,” said Gertrude darkly before I could answer.
“I don’t know what it means exactly,” I said after a moment, “but I fear that Gertrude is right.”
“Perhaps you’d better get to work, then,” said Matilda.
“I’ll head out soon,” I said, “but not before I have another slice of toast.”
Ethan Abides 