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"MARGOT! MARGOT!" A small voice was calling the five-year-old girl as she sat in her bedroom, face pressed against her pillow as she stirred from her sleep. Lifting a hand to her eyes, she sighed, a little bothered from being woken up from her nap. "Margot!"
"Hold on, Augustine!" She called back, dragging herself out of bed and running downstairs, bumping into the walls due to not being fully awake yet. Sprawled out on the floor was five-year old Jean and Augustine, the latter holding Jean's hand. Margot frowned, staring down at the two boys. "What's wrong with him? Why is he crying?"
"He cut his finger. We were tying to make omelettes before his mum came back, because we got hungry," Augustine explained. Jean held up his hand, a small cut on his chubby index finger. Margot narrowed her eyes, staring at the minor injury.
"You're not going to die, Jean. It's just a little cut," Margot sighed, pulling him up to his feet.
"Obviously I know that," Jean scoffed, his cheeks turning red. Even at a young age, he was stubborn. "Augustine told me to lie down in case I fainted."
"You won't... hopefully." Margot took his injured hand into her hand, washing it with water. She was only five, and so didn't know how to properly tend to a wound - but it was only a small cut. He would be fine, even she knew that. "Does it hurt?"
"No, of course not," Jean mumbled. "If I'm going to become a soldier, I'll get worse injuries than this."
"What injuries?" Augustine asked, coughing lightly. He had been ill for a few days. They had all brushed it off as nothing too serious, and so had he. The action went by unnoticed. "You want to join the military police. I'm sure you'll be fine. You'll get more injuries as a Scout. That's where I want to go! I'm sure our dad was in the Scouts too. Right, Margot?"
"The military police is hard too!" Jean argued before she could respond, folding his arms as his round cheeks puffed up in annoyance. "What about you, Margot? Where do you want to go?"
