"Alright, Sinclair, you're all sweaty from playing. Go take a shower; I've prepared a sumptuous dinner."
Sheila clapped her hands, receiving the small bag from Sinclair's hand with a look of disgust.
These plaster crafts were rough, their surfaces shedding powder; all cheap stuff.
Sinclair took a few steps, then, as if remembering something, turned back. "I don't want to take a shower. I want to lie in bed and eat. Also, Sheila, I hope you can call me 'Little Sinclair' from now on. I love you!"
"You have to take a shower even if you love me!" Sheila pinched Sinclair's cheek. "Little Sinclair, go take a shower now. Mommy loves you too."
Dean interrupted the cooing pair.
He stood in front of Sinclair, grabbed her collar, and carried her like a little chicken towards the living room, saying to Thompson, who was watching the scene unfold from the couch, "Get some cold water, and plenty of it. Something is not right with Sinclair."
"Not right?"
