“Dad! Look at my hands.”

I looked, “I don’t see anything. What is wrong with your hands, Clara?”

She came across the room and stuck them into my face. “Can’t you see? They are all black and scorched.”

“Scorched? That’s a big word for a little girl. Why would your hands be scorched?”

She shrugged, “I guess it must have been from the candle.”

I moved her hands away from my face. “Okay, why would you have been scorched by a candle today.”

She rubbed at the grey smudge on her thumb, “It was probably when I was melting the straw.”

“Wait, why were you-” but I suddenly realized I was already deeper down this rabbit hole than I cared to go. “You know what? Just don’t play with candles, alright? Your hands seem fine, but we might still need to have your head examined.”

She nodded and then casually walked away, twisting at the top of her head like a hard to open jar of pickles.