S O S

 

It's dinnertime and there's a submarine in Emilia's soup—she can spy its petite periscope peeking out beside a crouton. She dips it out with a spoon and watches the speck-sized crew crawl out of the hatch one-by-one, crying abandon ship! as she sways it around, some waving white flags no bigger than insect eyes. They dive headlong back into the soup with needle-prick kerplunks, cling to oregano life-rafts or take refuge on Cannellini bean islands.

 

It won’t be long until the macaroni sharks show up.