The receiver of the telephone slipped through Mrs. Westerman’s fingers and fell to the peeling linoleum of the kitchen floor with a sad and hollow thunk. She stooped, tried to pick it up again, but her fingers had become ghostly, insubstantial. They passed right through the receiver — worse, they scattered the atoms of said receiver like a rake passing through late summer dandelions. She withdrew in horror as a storm of delicate seeds of black bakelite exploded into flight throughout the kitchen. She straightened, examined the translucent spectres of her fingers through smudged glasses she could no longer adjust. Mrs. Westerman tasted the sharp, spicy tang of fear rising at the back of her throat. From the window facing the alley, dishes continued to explode upon the bricks like porcelain bombs. Oh Bless, she croaked, as she carefully placed one pinky into her mouth and bit down, hard. There was no pain. Her dentures clacked together, the sound of chalk upon stone. Oh Bless, no. It’s happening again.