I know, I know. Please don’t lecture me about kale or lettuce or quinoa. I just need some delicious yet easy-to-make comfort food. Something warm and simple to take up with me to the comfort of my bedroom as I space out watching the latest Ancient Aliens and fall asleep dreaming about the Sumerians and how their first leader was supposed to rule for thirty thousand years.

Simple stuff.

As is my wont, I fill the giant blue pot with water and light the stove. (It’s gas; you have to light it. I know, annoying.) Then I place the pot of water on the burner and look through the cupboard for my ramen noodle packet, spicy chicken flavor.

Then, I turn back to the burner and this is when the world ends.

Chapter 23

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I would like to hereby assert that, under penalty of perjury, what I’m going to tell you now is absolutely, 100 percent true. There are no drugs involved, no booze, not even a chamomile tea.

And I know you’re not going to believe me.

But I’m telling you.

I did not leave the room.

I did not even take more than a half step.

I was there the whole time.

Right there.

And . . . when I turn back to the burner where I just put the blue pot, which I just filled with water . . .

It’s not there.

Oh, the burner is still going. That all is keeping up with reality.

But no pot.

And then . . . I look at the counter, look at the sink, look in my hands, for God’s sake . . . and still no pot.

And then I see it.

Not casually set about, or happenstance over to the side, or asymmetrical in any way.

Nope.

Nope.

The pot, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, is . . .

Perfectly placed. Not an inch to the right or left.

Pristinely set.

In the middle of the kitchen floor.

Chapter 24

I know I know I know. It’s just a pot. Right? I mean how could it mean anything? I get it.

But the problem is that there is no physical way in the universe that said pot could have moved. Nope. No way.

And the precision of it. It’s so pristinely placed in the middle of the floor. You could measure it, from each side. The exact center.

This makes no sense.

I stare at the pot in the middle of the white kitchen tile floor.

What to do, what to do . . . ?

“Okay, self. You’re basically staring in fear at a pot right now. I mean, get ahold of yourself. It’s just . . . a . . . pot. We’re just going to pretend that didn’t happen. That somehow there is a logical explanation for this.”

I know the next step but I don’t want to say it.

“Daffodil, you have to just pick up the pot now . . . act like everything’s normal . . . and put it back on the stove. That’s it. This is not rocket science.”