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done. She checked the clock…the Henrys lived across town, on the west side. If she calculated for traffic, she would need…shoot. She turned the stove up to five hundred degrees. That should get it cooked in time for her to leave.
    “I think it’s your turn.” Gemma pulled off her elastic headband and ran her fingers through her bobbed hair.
    “To make dinner? Since when do we take turns making dinner?”
    “I made dinner for you last Sunday,” Gemma said.
    “Take-and-bake pizza. If you can wait until I get home, I’ll bring you one.” Jane chewed her bottom lip. She should give herself an hour to get there. Highway 26 was always a disaster during rush hour. She clicked the stove up to 515. She didn’t have time to mess around.
    “You know what we could do…” There was a mischievous lilt in Gemma’s voice. Jane decided to ignore it. “We could order in.” Gemma winked and dialed her phone.
    Jane sat at the breakfast bar drumming her fingers. If a casserole took, what…an hour, at a normal temperature, surely at 515, hers would be done in half an hour? Half an hour was more than enough time. She could even get lost on her way.
    The timer went off for the casserole.
    Jane looked up from her computer. She’d just check one more thing, then take it out. She sniffed. It didn’t smell like she thought it would.
    While considering what the smell reminded her of, the front door popped open.
    “Ladies. I don’t do this for just anyone, I want you to know. And I have to say, I don’t think hamburgers twice a day is good for you.” Jake set a recycled-paper drinks carrier on the counter next to Jane. “So I brought the New Year’s Cookie smoothies—or as the media has been calling them, the smoothies of death.”
    “They have not, Jake.” Gemma rolled her eyes.
    “They will. Anyway, I threw in some extra protein powders and some powdered veg. A meal in a cup.”
    “Gem…” Jane sipped her drink. “You ‘ordered’ dinner from Jake?”
    Gemma shrugged. “All our munchies needs, just a text message away.”
    “What stinks in here?” Jake asked.
    “My attitude.” Jane sighed. “Roommates are always a challenge.”
    “What you need is a husband. They’re easy as smoothies.”
    “Easy as the smoothies of death? Sign me up.” Jane took a deep breath. “Wait, I smell it, too. What is that?”
    “It smells like someone doesn’t know how to cook.” Jake picked up a soup can. “Do you know how much MSG is in these?”
    “I don’t know how to cook. But how can casserole smell like that?” Jane gagged. She wouldn’t want to eat a dinner that smelled like a burnt tire, much less give it to someone for a funeral.
    “Casseroles can’t smell like that. Why are you cooking a casserole at five hundred and fifteen degrees? Are you trying to burn your house down?” Jake clicked the light on to see inside the stove. “Oh, Jane. Really?”
    “What?”
    “Plastic handles in a really hot oven? For a casserole?”
    Jane exhaled through tight lips, making a pffft sound. “So, that’s not right?”
    “It’s a wonder you didn’t kill us all when we were living together.”
    “We were not ‘living together,’ Jake.”
    “Potatoes, potahtoes.” Jake turned the oven off. “Just leave it there until the tenth of never. Don’t open it. Don’t touch it. Trust me. You don’t want to open that oven.”
    Jane reached around him and pulled the oven open. Smokey, burnt-plastic air enveloped her.
    “You don’t like to listen, do you?”
    “I can’t have it start on fire.” She grabbed a dishrag for each hand and yanked the pot out. One hand sizzled, since the dishrag was wet. The other hand squeezed the hot plastic handle like it was Play-Doh. “Ouch!” She dropped the pan. Hot “casserole” spilled across the floor and splattered the cupboard doors, and her pants.
    She kicked the pan.
    “Calm down, champ. Spilled milk’s not worth crying over.”
    “It’s not milk. It’s goodwill to