2 Chapter 2

The cafeteria, with certain sections of food differentiating from other sections, was exceptionally savory this time.

Peter started and picked up a tray, seeing that today was finally pancakes and waffles day.

His mouth started watering, as he couldn't stop gazing at the soft waffle.

Most days, only bland flavored cereals were presented to the orphans, in which he was quite intrigued about the peculiar brown milk.

He stepped up towards the elevated step, waiting for his food to be delivered.

The lunch lady seemed Mexican, while her accent sounded Philippian. Nobody knew her name, maybe it was the fact that she seemed new. "So, live here at the orphanage?" she remarked, setting up the plate for Peter.

As she put on the rail, she continued, "They must treat you well here."

Peter tried to hold his scoffing expression, and tried to enforce it when she wasn't looking.

"Yeah—maybe."

"Hey, don't worry, I'm positive that you will find parents here."

As Peter picked up his tray, something scary came up in his mind.

"What happens to the eighteen year olds, with no parents?"

"Oh, them," she chuckled hushly. "I have no idea, after all—I'm just a lunch lady."

Peter nodded skeptically, knowing she knew something.

But what?

Were they kicked out?

Were they found new parents?

While he may be in an orphanage, he still knows most people don't like eighteen year olds.

He saw rows of tables occupied by many orphans in that case.

Except one.

Micah.

He came across him, sitting down and laying his tray on the table.

"So, what were you and the lady talking about?" he wondered.

"Just somethings about this place," Peter said, trying to keep further discussion irrelevant.

"What things?"

Nope. He sighed to explain a certain thing that may possibly get him in trouble.

"I asked the lunch lady, what happens to the people who become eighteen?"

Micah shrugged. "We were never told that, we just got told of what we were supposed to do."

"See what I mean?"

"What do you mean?" Micah said, finally realizing how the tables turned.

Peter whispered enthusiastically, "How is it that they never gave us a hint of what happens to the eighteen year olds."

"It's something beyond your worry."

Peter was stunned by the words Micah explained. He was usually vivacious about answers and change in the authority of this orphanage.

But, now?

It's almost as if he was—scared to say anything.

Peter decided to shrug it off, hoping that it was because of the eagerness of the waffle.

He took a bite into the waffle, quickly enjoying the savoring taste of the food.

Soon enough, the bell rang.

Recess.

The rush of the students was almost comical, as students rushed and took their trays to dump it in the trash.

Peter and Micah stared at each other, suddenly being pushed from the crowd.

The field was now occupied by hundreds of children.

Peter got up weakly, with his arms aching, which then Micah reached out his hand. He got up onto his feet, looking at two unoccupied swings.

"Let's go over there," Micah announced, leading his way to the swings.

They went over to the swings, taking a seat between the middle or right.

Peter took the right, as Micah took the left. He took out a little wrapped cup of applesauce, taking his plastic utensils and eating.

"I'm surprised you even did that," Micah said.

Peter looked up in confusion. "I always do this."

"Oh.

They stared at the kids, sliding down slides and purposely rolling and laughing.

"If only we were happy like them," Peter muttered with a hint of jealousy.

After a few seconds of what seemed like minutes, Micah finally answered.

"I'd prefer not," he said. Peter looked up, confused and surprised at the same time.

"Why do you say that?"

"Because we're the only ones that think," Micah answered.

"We actually question these rules of the orphanage which—by asking questions, all this technology is here." Peter ploddingly swallowed the piece of his applesauce. "So you're saying by questioning authority, we are the most human ones?"

"Not exactly," Micah said, finally pushing against the floor to start his momentum. "I'm saying we want answers."

"You're not wrong," Peter said, finally realizing. "So, what do we do to get these questions answered? And how?"

"I don't know, I don't know at all," he said. "But, somehow we might get them."

"So, miracles."

"Hopes—not miracles."

Peter stared down at the ground, thinking about all he just said.

He did have questions he wanted to be answered.

But he didn't think it was going to just come, but then how?

His thoughts were abruptly interrupted, as he looked up to a big person, with red-hair, and a very chubby, broad face.

Kirk.

His bully, from when he just came to this very moment.

"Hey, what are you pins doing huh?" he asked, as he went up towards Micah, spraying his breath at him.

"Nothing," Micah responded weakly, holding his breath.

Kirk looked at him, with a still face, then returning to his smirk.

"And you—Peter."

Peter immediately gulped without himself even knowing, as he stared at Kirk turning towards him.

"You are still too scared to talk to Gwen; you hopeless failure."

In a sudden rush, Micah shouted.

"Leave the man alone, chubs!"

Kirk turned once again, but this time, it seemed more enforced, as he walked—stomped towards him.

His face was merely inches away from Micah's nose.

"So, now you want to speak up, eh?" he asked, with a whisper.

The silence was almost too loud itself, before Micah was brutally dragged from the swing down to the floor.

"Wanna say that again?" Kirk said, as his friends were enclosing him.

Peter started breathing heavily, in shock and fear of what they were going to do to Micah.

"Wanna say that again?!" Kirk returned, giving a boot to Micah's stomach.

The men decided to do the same, which now was more effective.

Micah grunted as the men continued to kick him on his ribs.

Kirk continued to shout unbearably the same quote, stomping on Micah relentlessly.

After then, Kirk gave hard breaths, then expeditiously walked away with his guys.

Quickly, Peter rushed over to Micah, only to see his face bruised with cuts.

"Are you okay?" he asked, examining everywhere in panic.

"I'm fine, don't worry," he said, slowly and languidly getting up.

He stayed on his elbow for a long time, breathing hard and Peter tried to pick him up.

Suddenly, he closed his eyes and softly collapsed onto the floor.