Each morn after they broke camp, they ate an apple that Carter fetched from the food pack. And each morn, the apple would be progressively softer, having traveled across the state—aged, jostled, and bruised.
John bit. “Oh.” He showed the brown that his bite revealed.
Carter said nothing. He bit his own fruit, discovered the same, and went right on eating, smiling. He found it ironic that a slave balked at food that the master considered edible. But rather than feeling incredulous, he had fun with the situation.
“Sweet, huh? Yeah,” he said with a chuckle.