The phone in my hand was already buzzing.

The kitchen smelled of cardboard and that faint pencil smell new mugs have before they’re washed for the first time.

I put the fourth one on the marble island and pried the last flap of the box open with my thumb.

There were six of them, all the color of the sky an hour before it rains.

I’d ordered them on my phone at two in the morning three weeks earlier and forgotten I’d ever done it.

Then the house made a noise.