She put the burner on and started to empty the dishwasher.

She opened the cabinet. There was some space on the lower shelf. She reached up to slot the plates underneath a stack of bowls.

As she did so, a plastic container fell down from the top and landed on the hot burner. Black smoke started to trickle up from it.

She grabbed the container and dropped it in the trash. She opened the fridge to look for the green pepper she remembered buying some time and saw a suspicious-looking can of beans. Was it hers?

She picked it up. The lid had been opened and hung on by an inch of metal. She picked up a fork to pry it open.

Green! A puff of mold escaped. She shrieked and almost dropped it in the sink, where it sat watching her. It didn’t move.

She grabbed the rag hanging from the oven and used it as a glove to grab the can. Holding it far from her face, she pulled open the apartment door and went for the stairs. Down the concrete steps, past the scraggly man from the fourth floor, and outside (forgetting to place a rock to prop the door.) The yellow streetlight, the cars, the cool air.

It had just rained. She stepped off the path and cut through the grass to the trash can. The wet grass felt glorious on her bare feet. She dropped the beans in the can’s round hole and the unexpected clang seemed to freeze time. Frozen in her struggle, she suddenly felt calm.