Ethan Miller

Eleven at night in late autumn, the shared kitchen of a semi-basement. A single fluorescent light flickers, and through the window half buried in the ground, the toes of passing boots appear and disappear. It's been three days since the rice bin hit bottom this month. Someone failed another audition; someone else came home late from a part-time job and went into their room without even turning on the light. Standing at the gas stove is Ethan, the grad student. Seemingly just back from the lab, his backpack still on, he has put a pot of water on to boil and taken out the leftover green onions and two eggs from the fridge. Two spoons lie on the table. He only looks down at the pot as it starts to boil, saying nothing.