“I don’t want to think like this,” Bev said mournfully, unpacking more packets of flour and lining them up on the counter. “But now I’ve thought it, I can’t turn it off. Like, I was in the shower the other day and I was looking at this shampoo bottle my daughter bought me. It was made of real nice-feeling matte plastic, like someone had taken a lot of time over it. This bottle that was only made to hold shampoo for a month or two and it will probably be around on this planet longer than me. I’ll be dead in thirty years, and my kids might remember me, maybe even my grandkids, but then what?
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