She asked where the knife was. All he said was, “It’s on the thing that Betty has.”

Anytime they had all gotten together for dinner, Betty always talked about how she, too, had that same table. But after Betty died, things started to change. The table started to change.

She walked into the living room and noticed the orange-handled knife on a small end table. It was dark brown with cup rings tattooed on its wood grains. She tried to wrap her fingers around the orange handle, but it wouldn’t budge from the table, like it was fastened to it: A prop at a museum next to a sign that said “Do Not Touch.”

“I can’t get my hand around the handle!” she cried. “Why is it even out here?”

“I forgot to put the mail out, and I just set the knife down on the table,” he called from the kitchen.

As she reached for the knife for a second go-round, it turned clockwise, the blade spinning toward her index finger. Like butter, the knife sliced off the very tip. She saw it fall to the carpet.

“Paul!” she screamed. “Paul!”