/lit/ - Literature

It was a reasonably cold morning on the 2nd of May when Sammy Newman’s parents called him inside for a talk. He had just lit a cigarette behind the pigpen-- well out of range of his grandmother’s scouring eyes, which regularly monitored him from the attic of the farmhouse—but before he had the chance to toke it, he heard his father’s half-angry, half-distressed voice call out, ‘Sammy! Here, lad.’
At this point he had no premonition as to what was about to occur. After all, his family regularly called him inside to scold him for his smoking habits (they were strongly against it); or shout at him for incorrectly tending to the animals. He dabbed out his cigarette on a rusty steel barrel, placed it in his pocket and gradually tottered inside.
Sammy was rather taken aback by what he saw. All around the dinner table his family were sat with solemn, perplexed faces as if they were pondering a riddle. Even grandmother had managed to come out of her recluse in the attic, something rarely seen since two Christmases ago. ‘What is it,’ Sammy said, ‘cat die or something?’ He bit into an apple that was sitting on the counter.
‘No,’ said father, seeming rather unamused. ‘Sammy, me and your mother—well, we’ve been talking. A lot.’ He paused.


Critique pls