“I found where those flies were coming from,” Katie says in a tone of flat dread. At her feet lies a plastic bag she’s pulled from the cabinet labeled “organic potatoes,” but nothing in the shape of the bag would indicate the contents of the bag to be even solid, let alone potato-shaped, and some of whatever remains in the bag has leaked a foul, brown-ish black liquid onto the tiles.
“Oh god,” I reply, which seems like a sensible thing to say, especially since I know that I’m the one who put the biohazard-formerly-known-as Organic Potatoes in said cabinet to begin with.
“Yeah, you are neither mentally nor spiritually prepared for what’s in here,” she continues, peering into the depths of the bottom shelf in horror.
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