“Yeah. Yeah. It’s okay. Everything’s fine.” He shrugs, a completely different person from the last time I saw him.

“So . . . what’s with the knocking?” I ask.

“Oh, it’s just. Well, I wanted to tell you we’d be sawing out back so it could get a little loud.” He looks up apologetically.

That’s weird. Haven’t they been sawing this whole time? No one has given me this warning before.

“Um, okay. Thanks!” I give a quick wave, trying to end the interaction.

“No, but, there was something else . . .” he says. “I was just wondering. There’s an issue with the plans I need you to look at.”

Is that it? Is there something about being inside the house? “Um, I’m not really . . . in charge of any of that so . . .”

“Oh, it’s just a simple thing. I need to meet with you to show you what I’m talking about. I need you to see the blueprints, because there are going to have to be some slight changes and—” He becomes more emphatic.

“Yeah, um, I wouldn’t know—”

“Maybe today’s no good. We can just meet tomorrow. After we’re done with the work. It will be real quick, just take a minute!” And then he begins walking off, as if it’s all settled.

“No, but—” I try to get out of it, but it’s too late.

He’s already back with the work crew, one of the men scratching his head and looking at the blueprints.

The rest of the day goes by without incident. The noise of the saw does seem particularly loud and unnerving. Around midday, the sound stops.

I wait, then I round the bend and see the backyard has been abandoned, not a worker in sight. And, again, the dirt hole is just as it was. No progress.

I search around for any signs of the schizophrenic boss, but Baseball Hat Mike seems to have disappeared, along with his truck. Good. Then I’m safe.

I let out a sigh of relief as I make my way up the long driveway, up the front steps, and into the house.

My stomach grumbles.

Ramen it is!

I reach under for the boiling pot, my mouth watering even thinking about my soon-to-be ramen feast. I fill the pot and put it on the stove. The water swirls as I watch.

But then there seems to be something else in—

I stagger backward. The pot tips. It spills to the floor.

No, it can’t be.

This is not happening this is not happening this is not happening.

It’s this place. It’s playing tricks. It’s tormenting me.

(I deserve the torment.)

The frog from the shelf. The one I saw perpetually swimming in its murky gray jar.

The frog is inside the pot.

My mind races.

I think of the frog from the fable being slowly boiled alive.

The frog who doesn’t understand its fate because it can’t feel the temperature slowly rising around him.