The bamboo basket was still swaying on the beam, the cooking smoke wafting up gently. Ewan stretched up to pull the basket down, his heart pounding. He took out each snail, turning them over and over to inspect them. A few were still clinging tightly to their shells, but their outer layers had started to close up, as if they were sinking into a very deep sleep. They had not died yet, but he still needed to observe them for a few more days, if they were still alive after five or six days, he could try catching a larger batch.
Right at that moment, Simon's voice called out: "Ewan?"
"I am in the kitchen." Ewan replied, and then saw Simon slowly walk in.
At that moment, the young man also noticed the basket Ewan had hung up and asked curiously: "What are you hanging up there?"
"Snails."
"Snails?" Simon inquired with curiosity: "Why are you hanging snails over the hearth? Are you making smoked snails? Will they even cook through?"
