Page 29 of Thawed Gladiator Thrax

“You’re smart. You’re bound to figure it out sooner or later,” I reply cryptically, enjoying the puzzled look on his face.

We enter his room, and I direct him to move the nightstand and chair. We push his bed to clear enough space to roll the second bed right up next to his, creating one large surface.

Thrax stands back, surveying our handiwork. His brow furrows, and I can almost see the gears turning in his head. Finally, he gathers the courage to ask, “What… what are we going to do in this big bed?”

I turn to face him, ready to explain, when I notice the growing bulge in his pants. Oh. Oh no. My cheeks flush as I realize the implication of my innocent surprise. Thrax’s expression is a mixture of scandalized shock and poorly concealed excitement.

“Oh God, Thrax, I’m so sorry,” I stammer, mortification washing over me. “I didn’t mean to imply… Our clothes are staying on for the night, I promise. This is just for comfort while we watch TV.” I point to the TV attached to the wall facing the two beds.

Relief and something that might be disappointment flicker across his face. “TV? I’ve been wanting to see what’s hidden in the box.”

I nod, grateful for the change of subject. “Yes, but first, we need snacks. Come on.”

Taking his hand and snagging the lovely flowers he picked—and recalling how sweetly he handed them to me, like a boy at his first prom—I lead him to the cafeteria. The night staff gives us curious looks as we enter, but I ignore them, heading straightfor the snack area. I grab two packages of microwave popcorn and a huge bowl.

Just as I’m about to place the first package in the microwave, I look at the packaging and notice it expired months ago. I toss it in the trash, much to Thrax’s chagrin.

“That was food, yes?”

“Yes.”

“And you threw it away? Is food so plentiful in your time that you can waste it?”

After a short discussion on preservatives, I explain the concept of expiration dates. I conclude with, “So, since it might have gone bad, we’ll use a newer package.”

He’s still cogitating on that when I say, “Okay. Time for your first lesson in modern cooking.”

I guide him to the microwave, explaining its function as simply as I can. “It uses invisible waves to heat food quickly,” I tell him, demonstrating how to open the door and place the popcorn package inside.

Thrax watches with wide-eyed fascination as I punch in the time and start the machine. When the first kernels begin to pop, he jumps back, startled.

“It’s okay,” I reassure him, laughing softly. “That’s supposed to happen.”

As the popping intensifies, Thrax’s expression morphs from surprise to wonder. “This is… cooking?” he asks incredulously. “But there’s no fire, no heat!”

I nod, enjoying his amazement. “Welcome to the 21st century,” I tease. “It’s perfectly safe. All you need to remember is not to put any metal inside the machine.”

When the popping slows, I open the microwave and carefully remove the steaming bag. The rich, buttery smell fills the air, and Thrax inhales deeply.

“It smells delicious,” he admits, peering curiously at the bag. “There’s food inside the bag?”

I show him how to carefully open the bag and pour the popcorn into the bowl without getting burned. His face lights up as he takes in the fluffy white kernels, steam still rising from them.

“Can I?” he asks, reaching for a piece.

“Of course,” I encourage. “But be careful, it’s hot.”

Thrax pops a kernel into his mouth, and his eyes widen in delight. “It’s wonderful!” he exclaims, reaching for more.

Laughing, I swat his hand away playfully. “Save some for the show!”

One of the staff found a water carafe at my request, and I set the flowers into it, doing my best to display them properly.

I talk Thrax through popping the second bag and get a kick out of watching him. He looks so proud that if I wasn’t in a hurry to watch the movie, I’d find the theme toRockyon my phone and play it as he triumphantly pours the popcorn into the bowl.

We grab drinks and make our way back to his room, giggling like children as we try to avoid spilling popcorn kernels as we speed down the corridor. Once inside, I turn to Thrax.

“Okay, shoes off,” I instruct. “We want to be comfortable.”

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