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    I cradle a white plastic grocery bag containing three packages of instant ramen. My rainboots weigh heavy on my feet as I enter her house without knocking.

    “Dinner?” they call out from the kitchen.

    I shake the bag. “I got it.”

    Darkness rises outside as the clock strikes ten. Every room in the house is lost to shadow, but the kitchen exudes warmth, color, light. Musical theatre soundtracks drain my phone battery as we get to work. One washes dishes, the other chops a mushroom, and I bring the water to a boil.

    The clop clop clop of the knife against the chopping board suddenly stops. “Is it safe to eat the weird, fuzzy part of a mushroom? It’s not a deadly poison or anything, right?”

    “Uhm. . .”

    We all frantically Google “mushroom parts edible?” from our phones before concluding that it is, indeed, safe.

    “If we do die, though, I wouldn’t mind dying with you guys.”

    “Me too.”

    “Same here.”


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