To be fair, when the alarm goes off, there’s barely even any smoke rising out of the oven.
“Um, is the apartment on fire?”
I lower the screen of my laptop down, where my older sister Paige’s now scowling face is taking up half the screen on a Skype call from UPenn. The other half of the screen is currently occupied by the Great Expectations essay I have written and rewritten enough times that Charles Dickens is probably rolling in his grave.
“Nope,” I mutter, crossing the kitching to shut the oven off, “just my life.”