By the time they finally returned home, the sky had already gone dark.
Micah didn't even bother changing his clothes. The moment he entered his room, he kicked off his shoes with his heel, walked straight to the bed, and collapsed face down into the mattress. His arms sprawled out to either side like he had been shot mid-step.
He didn't move again.
Within seconds, he was asleep, dead to the world, breathing slow and heavy, like a tired dog that had run across fields all day and finally found a warm spot on the floor. He didn't dream. Didn't stir. He simply slept until morning sunlight crept through the curtains and warmed his back.
The Palmer house was lively the next day. Relatives poured in, neighbours dropped by, and old acquaintances showed up with smiles that were a little too wide and eyes that were a little too curious.
Ever since Edmund's grand blunder, Micah's "popularity" had exploded in the most embarrassing way possible.
No one held back anymore.
