( Candied... fruit, then. Fancy that. He's intrigued in the way of hungry, bemused children, toying with the gift in his hands now as if the reality of its unsophisticated nature has made it delicate. As if, now that he knows it is a fruit, it will decay at ten times its natural speed, in his clasp.

When he bites in, it's too soft at first, teeth gliding and leaving only a glimmered trail of mouth's wet. On the second turn, he bites too deep — but picks up his piece and grins, foolishly fond, around it to show his work. After a satisfied chew — it is delicious — )

They're good to me. Mr. Grove wants to teach me letters next season. ( Never mind that he has already learned the rows once before. ) Used to be a... a teacher. In a school. They say, up.

( Where all the pretty, glistened and chrome things live, where his eyes blight and bloom wild, when he chances a glance. Upstairs, where dust doesn't make its house in your soul. )

And Mrs. Ellis gives me pie trims. ( Another bite of the apple, still learning. ) We can ask her. For you. I'll give you mine.