FOGOU: 13

Power cut.

He waits for his eyes to adjust, and then walks into the kitchen to find the candles where he left them.  Shakes the box of matches: fewer in there than he would like.  Carefully rasps one down the striker, husbands the flame and lights three candles.

Husbands the flame, he thinks to himself.  This is what I do now.

He walks the candles back to the kitchen table and resumes work by old light.  Sips his mead.  The numbers become elusive by candlelight.  They were clear under new electric glow, but uncertain in ancient flame.   Still, he is certain. 

There’s a knock at the door.  One he knows.  Bap bapabapbap bap-bap.  Tired smile.  First smile of the day?  It makes his face ache in a surprising way, muscles that have been asleep for a while.  That idiot always knocks the same way.

At the door, the teacher holds his little wind-up torch under his face.  “What a night for the lights to go out, eh?  You need to come with me now.”