“Didn’t there use to be a frog in there?” She peers at the jar of murky liquid on the shelf.

The empty jar.

Wait.

What?

Why is the jar empty?

“Where is the frog?” She says my exact thought out loud. “It’s clearly not in there.”

She turns to me.

Wait . . . does she think I took the frog?

“Um . . . I have no idea where the frog is. That’s the weirdest thing. I mean . . .” I utter.

This is officially becoming a very confusing morning.

“Well, it couldn’t have just leapt out of its jar and closed the lid behind it now, could it?”

And she’s right. Of course.

How the heck did that frog get out of there? Is this some kind of prank?

“Did . . . you . . . take it out?” I ask her.

“Me! Now, why on earth would I do such a thing? Absurd!”

And it is absurd.

It’s absurd to be pondering the existence of a frog but it is also absurd that a frog could just disappear out of its murky display jar.

“Be honest. Did you take it?” She tilts her head.

“No! Of course not! Why would I?! I don’t even like things like that . . . frogs in jars, animals on the wall, taxidermy . . . it all just seems kind of gross, honestly.”

She peers at me over her wire-rim glasses, seeming to size me up.

Then she makes a judgment.

“No. No, you don’t seem the type.”

I nod. “Thank you. Geez. I’m not, like, some psychopath.”

“Of course not, dear. No one is saying that. But it is a bit odd, don’t you think?”

“Yeah . . . I mean, yes. It’s . . . completely . . . bizarre.” I walk to the jar, inspecting it closer. The lid is perfectly in place. I try the lid and not only is it in place, but it’s actually tight. “This is so strange.”

“Indeed,” she agrees. “But after all, it is just a frog, isn’t it?” She comforts me in her very English way.

“Yes, right. Just a frog.” I don’t want to seem like an absolute nitwit, so I agree.

“May I suggest something, dear?” She leans in.

“Sure. Yes. Of course.”

“Why don’t you go for a little walk down the road into town, shop around a little bit, maybe pick up a book, maybe have tea at that sweet little café there?”

Tea. Why are the Brits so obsessed with tea? Anything happens . . . “Put the kettle on.” A death in the family. “Put the kettle on.” Tornado. “Put the kettle on.” Nuclear war. “Put the kettle on.”

“It might be nice to get out a little, don’t you think? This house is beautiful, but it can be . . . a bit isolated, yes?” she suggests.

It’s surprisingly kind, coming from her. Not that she’s unkind. She’s just so . . . English.