"Gray, huh? Where is he?" Miriam asked, glancing around.
"Somewhere in this house," Timothy replied, sounding as worn out as he looked.
"What's got you in such a foul mood?" she asked, eyes still scanning the room, likely hunting for the elusive termite.
"I'm famished," he muttered.
She turned to look at him, one eyebrow raised as if to say seriously?
"I'm too lazy right now," he added after catching the look.
"Are you just lazy, unbothered, or do you genuinely not care?" she asked bluntly.
"I care… about eating."
"You do realize anything you do right now could be your last, right?"
"Exactly. So why stress over it?" he said, still sprawled on the couch.
"Worry about what you can control. And for the rest? Just be prepared."
"You weren't prepared when your mom..." Miriam began, then stopped herself as the words slipped out.
She froze, waiting for a reaction.
But Timothy just stared at the ceiling.
"Learned my lesson the hard way."
