The Waiting Room.

9- home now.

A heavy summer wind shifted the old tire swing back and forth as spider built their livelihood across the diameter. Spires followed suit, some detaching from the soil. From her bedroom window, Samara Tarver studied the landscape as the arachnids remained unaffected by the whistling breeze. She ran to the balcony branched from her sleeping mother's room, staring in amazement as the current making up Stillgrave River reversed direction.

"What do you see, Martin?" The frog stepped up to the window sill from the taxi that was Samara's hands.

"Restraint comes from the self," he said, through Morse code as he blinked. "A conscious minds incessant desire to be true to who they are is a trap. There is infinite knowledge in the universe, and for someone to dismiss anything new simply because it doesn't fit who they are at that infinitesimally small moment in the ever-expanding and unstoppable course of time, is a limit entirely localized within them. It is, by definition, impossible to have completed growth."

"The river is going the wrong way!" She exclaimed, dramatically tapping on the glass.

"Yes," he sighed. "Stillgrave has dismissed the restraint."

"Watch!" She commanded. Martin let out a croak and turned his head. "I can do it too!"

Samara stumbled backwards, collapsing onto her mother's bed at first collision. "You made it all the way through the door!" The frog cheered with gleeful blinks. Linette groaned. "I think it's time for breakfast."

Two cracked eggs splashed against the sizzling oil. "Kerry likes scrambled, so we'll make hers last," she informed, dividing eggs as Martin watched the pan. "Well, yours last, cause I'm not eating out of a skillet that torched a bunch of flies."

"You're just saying that cause it's Kera's turn to wash dishes."

"Duh," she smirked. "And don't tell me that's a bad habit cause if you were really starving I've cook yours first and you know it!"

Martin croaked. "Do you know anything about Officer Galen's salary?"

"What?" She flipped the stove fan on. A few sparks of oil jumped onto Samara, which live and died unfelt. She pulled her sleeves down over her knuckles and began to flip the eggs. "Why would I know anything about that? I'm eleven."

"Why would I want to know anything about it? I'm a frog." The preheat command beeped as Samara placed a tray of homemade hash patties in the oven.

"Then it's settled," she hiccuped. "Galen Rush makes fifty-three thousand dollars a year. He's the only officer on duty in the registered town which means he's bound to be on call twenty-four seven. By that math he makes six dollars and twenty cents the hour, rounded down. Compare that to the hourly wages of servers nation-wide of whom are allowed to accept tips, and he makes more that double that of waiters working in 44 states. But of course, there hasn't been a crime in our small town in years. Not a bar brawl, not robbery, not even a slip on anyone's tax claims. A rule, a law, should always have exemptions, Martin. Do you think it's fair that that man gets a five figure salary to essentially take a stroll around the area a couple times a day, when Lazaro and CJ couldn't afford to pay Quincy Booker to pick up their order of flour last week? So we all sat in the Locke and Key and ate stale bread as Galen chucked down sample sized cakes from his monthly European desserts subscription? Is it fair that a man like that lives in a town so small that if you accidentally took the wrong exit and landed here, the Mayor himself could direct you back to the freeway? Every molecule in my body believes that the only way he would spare CJ and Lazaro $20 for the delivery is an immense social pressure. But he is best friends with the Mayor, so there is no one in sight to offer him that." She began to chop up the steaming pan of eggs with her spatula, deeming them 'scrambled'. Soon after, Kera emerged. Bed-headed and sleepy, she began to slice oranges for juicing.