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You twisted the cap. You heard the pop. You flipped the cap over. In tiny red letters on the yellow underside there was a number and a sentence, and for the rest of the day, at lunch, in the car, in a group chat that had not been invented yet, you were the person who knew that a goldfish had a three-second memory.

HAGS. KIT. LYLAS. Don't ever change. Ten stock phrases, a fistful of gel pens, and a book you handed to a stranger in third period and asked to be remembered by.

Red, blue, yellow, green. Never brown. Never enough. Four wax stubs in a paper sleeve and a placemat with a maze you could solve in eight seconds.

The cursor would stop moving sideways. Or up. It would only go diagonal. You'd flip the mouse over, twist the little ring, and a small rubber-coated ball would fall out onto your palm, slightly warm, slightly sticky, exactly as expected.

Folded out of notebook paper by the only kid in class who could fold one. Eight fortunes written in blue ballpoint pen. You picked a color, you picked a number, you picked a number, you learned you were going to marry Brian.

You pulled the cap off, pointed the nozzle at a Ritz, and pulled the trigger. What came out was the color of a highway sign and the texture of toothpaste, and you ate it without ever once asking how cheese got into an aerosol can.