where he had stuffed the plastic bag full of leaves he’d swept up this morning first thing.
It had been a windy night. They’d clearly blown in through his open window. Clearly.
He finished his cereal and toast, drank the last of his juice,
then rinsed the dishes and put them in the dishwasher. Still twenty minutes to go.
He decided to empty the rubbish bin altogether – less risky that way – and took the bag out to the wheelie bin in front of the house.
Since he was already making the trip, he gathered up the recycling and put that out, too.
Then he got a load of sheets going in the washer that he’d hang out on the line when he got back from school.
He went back to the kitchen and looked at the clock. Still ten minutes left.
Still no sign of– “Conor?” he heard, from the top of the stairs. He let out a long breath he hadn’t realized he was holding in.
“You’ve had breakfast?” his mum asked, leaning against the kitchen doorframe.
“Yes, Mum,” Conor said, rucksack in his hand. “You’re sure?” “Yes, Mum.”
She looked at him doubtfully. Conor rolled his eyes. “Toast and cereal and juice,” he said.
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