The moment she recognized the pattern, the room seemed to tilt: not seasoning, but a nursery. Tiny, translucent eggs lined the veins of the lettuce, proof that her carefully curated “healthy choice” had come straight from a world she preferred to forget. She pushed the plate away, half repulsed, half stunned that she had almost welcomed it without question.
Later, the fear softened into something else. She learned that most such hitchhikers are harmless, more unsettling to the mind than to the body. What lingered was not danger, but perspective. Her salad was not a sterile product; it was a fragment of a living field, rushed to her table with only a thin layer of washing and faith in between. From then on, she rinsed more, checked more, and ate with a sharper, quieter respect for everything that still crawls at the edges of “fresh.”
