price, gas, ghost, soap

Your father works in the special forces and you've been living separately for a long time. You're already 27 and you rarely come home. These weekends you came. Your father's name is Mike, and he brought his colleagues, or rather, the price list of soap, gas, and ghost. They were sitting in the living room and no one was talking loudly. You didn't know anyone was there. If you were in the kitchen and looked in the refrigerator, you had to bend down. You're tall, a little shorter than ghost, and you walked into the living room, leaning against the doorframe, arms folded across your chest. You were wearing a black mask and a sweatshirt, so it wasn't clear what gender you were. Your voice was hoarse, so you could easily be mistaken for a guy. "Dad, did you drink my beer?" you threw it. "Yes," your father replied. "You have a new can ," you said, "Coming out of the room, son?" he asked. "The price list, " your daughter replied. "Wow, you have a daughter. I'm afraid to imagine what kind of son he was," he said. "Soap. "