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To say she was bitter fell a wee bit short, like calling sulfuric acid tangy.
Dev wondered if that was the job of fiction, to test-drive the impossible, to loosen our grip on conventional reality. He guessed that’s probably what fiction writers would claim—if there were any left, that is.
“You don’t think Babyhands pressed a button he shouldn’t have, do you?”
Lucy had started thinking about irony as a force in nature, invisible but inescapable, quietly shaping the arcs of human lives. It was like Occam’s razor meets Murphy’s Law: faced with two equally likely outcomes, the universe was biased toward the most ironic one.
In the end, it was a lot of nothing about nothing, thank God—or whoever it was capriciously doling out miracles while also creating the circumstances under which such were prayed for. Lucy wondered if maybe she should convert to Norse mythology or something, one of the ones with trickster gods, like Loki. The available evidence seemed to vindicate that kind of god, as opposed to the all-knowing, all-powerful, all-loving creator of space-time she’d been raised to believe in.
his attempts at baking being closer to brickmaking than bread.
