“Oh, resourceful are you?” the Polish woman scolds, but there’s no anger. She scoops Kermie up and drops him back on the ground, pushing the chair back toward the table with the casual air of someone who’s had to shoo many mischievous children from the kitchen.

“What are those things?” Kermie asks in awe as the woman pokes at the pot with a wooden spoon. “How did they dance?”

“They’re called pierogies, little frog, and they’re dancing because they’re almost done.” She spins from the stove and smiles down at him, a moment that fills his veins with something warm and bubbly. “I will get you one that is for real done, and they will make you dance instead.”

As the woman forks a pierogi from a container onto a plate for Kermie, the apartment door just behind them pops open. On the other side of the door, something glows blue.