Sometimes, rare though it may be, they even uncover good ones. They somehow stir up a pleasant sensation amid the clutter, freeing it to swirl up into her consciousness. Such as this one: a recollection warm and dry with a hint of companionship. Someone laughing, perhaps. Possibly even her—

It passes and her smile fades; all traces of the event recede with whatever triggered the feeling, chased back into the past where it was made and still belongs.

The woman sighs and reaches for her mixing bowl. With a heavy heart, she taps in some flour ground from a mixture of alien grasses. A buttery paste is cut in next, then one of the fruits from the hammock, finely diced. Strapping her iron skillet above the hole in the counter, she bends down and fiddles with the lens below.

Through a small glass window in the tin wall—low down and behind the counter—a violent stream of photons enters the cabin. The rays of harsh light pass through a series of filters before slamming into the bulging lenses. They bend through them, curving and condensing, sliding and squeezing together before mirrors divert them up toward the hole in the counter. There, the powerful and focused beam of light strikes the bottom of the iron skillet with all the force of a laser, and the cabin fills with the aroma of hot oil.

The concoction goes from the mixing bowl to the skillet, and old hands work fast, stirring it to heat evenly. When it smells just right, she blocks off the light and spoons the mixture onto the counter. It’s still piping hot, but her old hands hardly notice; what nerves remain have become calloused with more time and tragedy than they were built for. Now they’re lucky to feel anything, even a burn.

While she shapes the treats with her palms, she listens to the rain ahead of her pepper the tin, roaring in occasional, thick sheets. The density of the sound makes her anxious to get out there and see what’s going on. Something about the day feels unusual. Momentous. She pops one of the plump morsels in her mouth, preferring them fresh and hot, and chews while her curiosity swells. She puts the rest of the dumplings in her old basket and hangs its woven handle in the crook of her arm. Turning, she moves to the solitary door at the rear of the shack, pushes it open, and steps out onto the small porch beyond. As she shuts the door, her home hits another large happening, and everything lurches to one side. Steadying herself, she cringes at the sound of things rustling and banging together inside her tiny home. When things move too far, it takes her a good while to find them again.