Found some of Mabel’s old things. From before me, I think.
Nora, I tried. There were objections.
He came prepared for several possible conversations.
Not my finest performance. At least it’s Friday.
She has concerns about the handling of her treats.
Existential dread level: normal. Whatever he did seems to have worked.
No one wanted to sit down after the machine said, “Do not mistake the body for the patient.”
He had narrowed it down to two cards and one fruit.
My work here is done. Her ruling, not mine.
I shouldn’t have let Mabel pack my lunch.
