Languor clung like a thin, wet cloth.

Or maybe it pulled--dragged at him--urging him to relax. To crumble and rot away to bones.

Lisander wasn't certain how he resisted. His strength had run down to vapors and then to nothingness a long time ago. There were no hands to support him, or voices to cheer him onward.

So then, it was out of necessity. Yes. That sounded right.

He awoke in the mornings because he had to.

He awoke in the mornings because his little sister's hands tugged at the side of his bed, yanking away the blankets in a determined attempt to climb up. He awoke in the mornings because the air did not smell of sausage and bacon and eggs, and biscuits, pancakes, muffins, freshly-juiced oranges, and chilled maple syrup. He awoke in the mornings and accepted the baton because--well. . .who else was going to?

He was the breadwinner.

So why, then, were they still breadless?