Brandy cuts her thumb with an Exacto and is careful to let only one drop into the bowl.  It curls through the mix, like frozen silk.

“Now,” Meg smirks, “a sprinkle of nutmeg, and we wait.”

“How will I know it’s working?”

“You’ll know.”

“You have no idea, do you?”  But Meg is off to find something to grate the nutmeg.

They stare at the bowl for twenty minutes.  The sun boils through the bedroom window.

Meg’s brow crimps.  “Maybe I missed something?”

Brandy shrugs.  Only not exactly.  She tries to stand up, and leaves her body in the chair.


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