I’m making toast in the kitchen while Pandora’s voice carries in from the living room, where she’s on the phone with her sister, pacing the way she always does when she’s trying to sound like she’s paying attention. I glance over at John Mercer, who’s on the couch with his eyes locked on his phone like it personally offended him. He barely looks up when Mr. Whiskers jumps onto his lap, which is unusual, because John normally at least acknowledges him. Today, it’s just a quick absent-minded scratch behind the ears before he goes right back to whatever he’s scrolling through.
The smell hits me a second too late—burnt toast. Of course. I flip it over like that’s going to fix anything, which it doesn’t, because it never does. Once it crosses that line, it’s done. I stand there for a second staring at it, like maybe if I look long enough it’ll explain itself, because that’s the thing—it always happens when I’m distracted. Not just distracted, but thinking. Overthinking.
I turn the heat down and glance at the counter where Mrs. Jenkins’ plate is still sitting from last night’s dinner. I’ve been meaning to wash it. It’s not even a big deal—it’s just a plate—but the fact that it’s still there feels unfinished, like something didn’t get closed out properly. Karen was over last night, I remember now, and we didn’t talk about anything serious, just normal stuff like work and traffic and whatever was on TV, but something about it felt off. Not obviously off, nothing you could point to, just… off.
“Yeah, I know, I know,” Pandora says from the other room, her voice drifting in. “No, I told him that already.”
Told me what?
I glance toward the doorway, but she’s out of sight, and her tone doesn’t change. If anything, she sounds normal—too normal, like she’s keeping everything level on purpose. Mr. Whiskers shifts on John’s lap, his tail flicking once, slow and deliberate. I shouldn’t read into that, but I do.
Karen was quieter than usual last night. I remember trying to respond to something she said about Dave being stressed at work, and she just didn’t really engage, like she was waiting for something else or someone else to say something. At the time, I brushed it off, but now I’m not so sure.
“Everything good?” I ask John.
He looks up for half a second. “Yeah.”
That’s it. Just “yeah.” No follow-up, no question back, nothing—which is normal for John, and that’s the problem. It’s always normal with him. You never get enough to tell whether something’s actually wrong.
I turn back to the counter, to the plate and the toast and that half-finished feeling of both, and I tell myself maybe Karen was just having a bad day, because people have bad days. That happens.
Pandora has been a little quieter lately, though. Not in a dramatic way—just small things. Pauses where there didn’t used to be pauses. Like she’s somewhere else for a second longer than she should be. Mr. Whiskers has been sticking closer to John too, and that part I can’t explain.
I open the fridge to grab something else for breakfast, and that’s when I see the cookies—half a package, already opened. I stare at them longer than I should. It’s not that we don’t have cookies; that’s not unusual. What’s unusual is that Pandora didn’t say anything about them. She always says something. New snacks, new food, even just grabbing something from the store—it comes up. But this? Nothing.
“Did you get cookies?” I call out.
There’s a pause. Just a second, but it’s there.
“Yeah,” she says. “A couple days ago.”
A couple days ago?
That doesn’t track.
“I didn’t see them,” I say.
“They were in the back,” she replies, like that explains it—which, to be fair, it does. Things get lost in the back of the fridge all the time.
Still, I close the fridge slowly.
John shifts again, adjusting Mr. Whiskers, who doesn’t take his eyes off me. I’m not saying the cat knows anything, but I’m also not saying he doesn’t.
“Your toast burned,” John says without looking up.
“I know.”
He nods slightly, like that settles it, and that’s the thing—to him, it does. Burnt toast is just burnt toast. Cookies are just cookies. Pandora being on the phone is just Pandora being on the phone. Everything is just normal.
But then Mrs. Jenkins mentioned this morning, while John was getting ready, that she saw Pandora leaving her sister’s place yesterday evening and said she looked a little stressed. Pandora didn’t mention that. She mentioned the kids being upset about a cookie, not herself.
And maybe that’s nothing. Maybe she just didn’t think it mattered.
But if it didn’t matter, why does it feel like something got swapped out, like I got the explanation that fits, not the one that’s true?
I look at the cookies again—half gone, a couple days, no mention. Pandora laughs faintly in the other room at something her sister says, and it sounds completely normal.
Maybe it is normal. Maybe all of this is.
People forget things. People don’t mention things. People buy cookies and don’t announce it like it’s breaking news. That happens.
But then why does it feel like everything is just slightly out of sync, like a show where the audio is half a second behind the video? You can still follow it, but you can’t ignore it either.
Mr. Whiskers blinks at me—slow and deliberate—and I swear, for just a second, it feels like he’s waiting to see if I’ve figured it out yet.
Because here’s the thing.
If Pandora didn’t mention the cookies, and Karen wasn’t really listening, and Mrs. Jenkins noticed something Pandora didn’t say, then either nothing is happening—
or everything is happening just slightly out of order.
I pick up the burnt toast and take a bite anyway. It’s still warm. Still edible. Technically.
John doesn’t react. Pandora keeps talking. The world keeps moving like it always does.
Which would normally be reassuring.
But right now?
It feels like that’s exactly how it’s supposed to look.
And if that’s true—
then the only one who’s actually paying attention here…
is the cat.