Nadia named her sourdough starter Gerald, the way you name anything you have to feed twice a day and slightly resent. This morning, taped to his jar in flour-dusted handwriting she did not recognize, was a note: WE NEED TO TALK ABOUT THE THERMOSTAT. Gerald had no hands. Gerald had no pen. And yet there it was, the tape still slightly warm.

Nadia did the only sensible thing. She put the lid on tighter and backed out of the kitchen. "Nope," she said to the empty room. "Not today." She would deal with the talking jar after coffee. Maybe after a new apartment. From behind the closed door came a soft, patient tap-tap-tap, like a knuckle on glass.

An hour later Nadia crept back in. The tapping had stopped. Instead, Gerald had pushed his own lid off and grown a tall, wobbly tower of dough that leaned out of the jar like a periscope, slowly turning to face her. "We weren't done talking," said a bubbly little voice. Nadia screamed and threw a dish towel at it.

Nadia and the dough periscope stared at each other across the kitchen. Then Gerald slowly drooped, looking hurt. "I only wanted to be warm," he gurgled. Nadia felt terrible. She picked up the towel she had thrown and gently wiped a smear off his rim. "Sorry," she mumbled. "Long morning. Let's start over."