Mackenzie fiddled with the baked dinner on his plate, stabbing the carrots, impaling the lamb. Stone cold. He’d hid the peas under the mash; Mum caught him and said he’d be here til bedtime, and the meal would be served up even colder the next morning if he didn’t finish it. Just eat it, she said. Just the peas. Please. He squashed them into a green mess, squeezed his eyes tight and licked a speck off his fork. He gagged. Mum buried her face in her palms. When she lifted her head she saw him glancing at the box of matches beside the stove. No, Mackenzie, she whispered, not tonight. They stared at each other for a long moment. The grandfather clock tolled nine pm. Okay, she sighed. A forkful of peas for one match. He nodded, and they shook hands. As he forced the fork into his mouth, choking back his retch, Mum lit the match. Its red head flared, died, and she wiggled it until it cooled. She then handed it to him and he relaxed back into his chair and slowly pushed the dead match against his tongue and sucked it. Now that was tasty!
