Cranking up the strangeness of the morning, my frazzled roommate makes fast toward the fridge. “I-forgot-your-fresh-squeezed-orange-juice, and-that’s-why-you-sound-so-perched!”

“Parched?”

“Y-Yah,” she pants, orange glass in hand, “So drink up!”

I don’t remember ever turning down Riley’s food, but I think this is beginning to sound suspicious.