There comes a time in every girl's life when she has to pack her father's undies and send it home for her mother to send to him in the prison. It is the time when she ponders upon whether her life's interesting enough to make the screen. Then she shuts the box and makes dinner.

"I wonder," she wonders aloud, "whether heroes don their knickers that way because they're a rather proud father. But that's an odd way to announce it, and I don't think they have daughters. Hawkeye does, I think, and he wears undies the normal way."

If the father asks the mother how the children are coping, she knows her mother will shrug and say unsympathetic factual statements such as, "So, so." The father, not wanting the children's despair but low-key hoping for dramatic reaction, will be sad but pretend he's not.

The sister handles communication, various administrations, and trials. The other sister handles communication and various administrations. She handles her brothers and their dinners. She handles them poorly.

The sister decides that they should cast an illusion of supervision, so the sister sends words to the world outside. She monitors whether and how the words are spread. She lists the names and notes absence in her head. She yells at fridge because the last carrot is a mush.

The flour is also the last flour. She thinks of people she once met and decided must be nice and how nice they really are. She thinks of people who claim to be nice and think of how one sometimes counts another's niceness from a Facebook's Like or Twitter's Retweet.

The chicken is green and they might die from eating it. It's almost her birthday and she's using this thread to tell her sister not to visit. In the kitchen is a pile of uneaten fish nuggets no one likes; the last thing the father bought her before the capture.

Her parents left the house because she invited a friend in, that day. She told them not to, but they left anyway. The friend brought a box of brownies. The brothers ate them when she couldn't wake up early to make breakfast. The friend was there when she received the news.

No one likes carrot and no one will look for it in the soup. She wonders why people are reading this thread and silently judges them for it. The friend she was with probably still doesn't know about this because they use neither Facebook nor Twitter.

The mother left on a ship to follow the father, that night. The mother brought chestnuts that belonged to the father. She slept and woke up 13 days later to read emails but could not reply. The soup is bubbling and she samples the broth but not the green chicken.

The brother eats the chicken and she waits for food poisoning to kick in. She drinks tea and will probably not eat dinner. She ends the thread and thinks of soup without carrot. She still wonders why people read this. She wonders if people think this means anything. It doesn't.