The kitchen lights were orange-yellow, warm and bright. In the dead of night, the light shining from this little house's windows made it look like a lighthouse in the wastelands.
But what was happening inside clearly had nothing to do with a cozy family atmosphere. Though the family tied beside the dining table wore smiles on their faces, their constantly struggling bodies showed that they were far from enjoying themselves.
Normally, having someone make breakfast and serve everyone a meal should have been a good thing.
But this bespectacled, burly middle-aged man carried an air of madness that even his gentlest tone could not conceal.
Paper bottle caps printed with a thumbs-up cow sat before everyone. The round milk bottles were bright and gleaming, and the milk inside was of premium quality, as though its rich fragrance could be smelled right through the glass.
Yet none of the family members looked at the milk allotted to them. Their heads kept shaking as they tried to wrench their bodies free from the ice binding them.
The Milkman stood nearby, staring at them with wide eyes as he waited for the response he wanted.
But thirty seconds passed. Then a minute. Then two minutes.
They never stopped struggling, yet not a single one said the words he wanted to hear.
So the smile gradually vanished from his face. His thick arm raised his trembling hand, and he slowly removed his glasses.
He had looked like an honest, law-abiding man, but after taking off his glasses, the Milkman seemed to become a different person. His sharpness was fully exposed, his imposing aura surged forth, and even his voice changed. Veins bulged on his forehead, his face flushed red, and he growled, "Why? Why don't you want my help? Why won't you say thank