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.

Nadia grabbed her car keys and decided to just leave for the day. But the front door wouldn't open. The deadbolt was packed solid with risen dough, soft and warm and gently breathing. A note was stuck to it: STAY. WE HAVE SO MUCH TO DISCUSS. Nadia tugged the handle and the dough tugged back.

Trapped, Nadia sighed and sat on the floor by the door. "Okay, Gerald. You win. Talk." The dough in the lock relaxed, and the deadbolt clicked free. A polite note rose up: THANK YOU. NOW. THE THERMOSTAT. Nadia laughed despite herself. "You really care about two degrees, huh." Tap. Tap. Yes.