The bed seemed to have a gravitational force. She stared at the ceiling. Escape velocity, she mused.
A face peeked in the door. "Can i get you anything?"
"Oh, if you could heat me up a can of soup", she couldn't quite finish the thought.
"Sure thing," and the face disappeared.
She nodded off. She woke up. She stared at the ceiling. Drifting, she mused.
The face reappeared. "You're going to have to come make it yourself, I'm too busy." Gone again.
Maybe it was the force of the injustice of it that gave her the strength, "it is not as if I rang some bell and demanded service" she muttered loudly, shuffling her way to the kitchen.
The face, now with it's back to her, was a contained cascade of curling dark hair. She shrugged and found some tetra pack soup so she wouldn't have to fail the can opener test, heated the soup to just above tepid, poured it in a mug, and gulped it down as quickly as she could. Still upright, she mused with pride, just as the face whipped past her in a frenzy of activity she couldn't process almost knocking her down. "I gotta get out of here," she thought, and then reflexively "do you need my help with anything?"
"Oh, that would be amazing. See those sticks of butter on the counter? Please cut them all into butter pats and put them into those bowls of ice water."
She blinked in disbelief. I'm visibly barely able to stand and I'm probably contagious I can't believe she took me up on that offer. See what being polite gets you. Or else the situation is pretty dire. Butter, she mused. This must be some sort of special butter because it was big. Maybe it was a compound butter remolded or maybe it was made from scratch to begin with, either way she was not asking questions.
She started cutting the butter into quarter inch thick pats and putting it into ice water baths. There was really not enough counter space for this kind of prep work. Catering, she mused. And speaking of the counter situation, these were weird counters. They were tile. With grout. And they were aqua-teal green. Just like the house she'd lived in when she was eleven. She turned slowly to look at things. The weird cabinets hanging from the ceiling, no wall behind them, blocking the sink area from the breakfast nook crowded by the window air conditioner. Huh. Her eyes ran from the end of the cabinet, partially open and containing file folders of some sort, to the open window over the sink.
A man in a suit was standing outside face in the window. "Do you have the agent's files ready?" he asked, somewhat impatiently she thought.
Wait,
what?!
