The Helper’s Harmony EP3
Chapter 3: "Notes in the Margins"
Sarah’s Rule #3: If the laptop isn’t dry, assume the universe hates you.
The goldfish tank bubbled ominously, Sarah’s work laptop glowing beneath Mr. Bubbles II’s plastic grin. Lily hovered nearby, clutching a hairdryer like a lightsaber. “I saw a YouTube video about rice!”
“That’s for phones,” Sarah hissed, fishing out the laptop with salad tongs. “This is a government-funded project!”
May hovered in the doorway, her hands twisted in her apron. “I’ll pay for repairs—”
“With what?” Sarah snapped, then immediately winced. “No, I’m sorry. That was… just… Why was it in the tank?”
Lily raised her hand. “I needed underwater footage for my volcano science fair project!”
Tom stifled a laugh into his sleeve. Sarah shot him a death glare. “This isn’t funny! I have a deadline, Noah’s vaccines made him feverish, and now—”
A chime sounded from the nursery monitor. Noah’s cry escalated into a siren-like wail.
“I’ll go,” May and Sarah said in unison.
They collided in the doorway, Sarah’s damp sleeve brushing May’s arm. “I’ve got him,” Sarah said, her tone leaving no room for debate.
4:18 PM: May stared at the laptop carcass on the kitchen table. Tom’s “World Cuisines” playlist hummed softly as he chopped vegetables nearby.
“She’ll cool off,” he said, drizzling sesame oil over a bowl of noodles. “Remember when I deep-fried her Fitbit?”
“This is worse.” May rotated the laptop, water droplets pattering onto Lily’s Laundry Dragon drawing. “I should’ve watched Lily closer.”
Tom slid the noodles toward her. “Kids are chaos tornadoes. Last week, Lily convinced me to ‘marinate’ her teddy bear in soy sauce.” He nodded to the fridge, where a laminated photo showed a stained Mr. Snuggles captioned LESSON LEARNED.
May picked at her food. “At the hospital in Yangon, I organized medication charts. Now I can’t even organize lunchboxes.”
“Hey.” Tom tapped his chef’s knife against a stack of restaurant permits. “You think I knew how to file these? I hired a guy who dreams in spreadsheets.”
May blinked. “Spread… sheets?”
“Digital paperwork. Like—” He pulled out his phone, showing a kitchen checklist app. “See? My staff marks tasks completed, I get notified. No Post-it avalanches.”
A notification popped up: DISHWASHER TEMP BELOW STANDARD.
“That’s our sanitizer,” Tom said proudly. “Cuts errors by 80%.”
May studied the interface, her nursing instincts flaring. “If you added photo logs for compliance checks…”
Tom froze. “You’re a genius.”
7:03 PM: Sarah rocked Noah in the dim nursery, his forehead burning against her collarbone. The pediatrician’s words looped in her mind: “Stress exacerbates colic.”
She glanced at the baby monitor—still displaying a frozen image from 6:47 PM. The Wi-Fi had been spotty since Tom’s “router upgrade.”
A soft knock interrupted her spiral. May stood in the doorway, holding a steaming mug. “Ginger tea. For… the milk.”
Sarah’s guard wavered. Nu’s medical books peeked out from under May’s arm. “You’re studying?”
“Old notes.” May set the tea down. “In Myanmar, we used ginger for nursing mothers. Helps with…” She mimed a stomach ache.
Noah’s cries hiccupped into silence as he latched onto the bottle. Sarah exhaled. “Thank you.”
A flash lit up the room—May taking a phone photo of the sterilized bottle.
“What are you doing?”
“Proof,” May said quietly. “For the schedule.”
Sarah’s jaw tightened. “I don’t need spying.”
“Not spy. Accountability.” May pulled up a gallery of timestamped photos: mopped floors, labeled lunch containers, boiler settings. “So you know… without checking.”
Sarah’s throat constricted. She’d taken 47 covert photos of May’s work this week.
A crash of thunder shook the house. The lights flickered.
“Storm’s here,” May murmured.
Somewhere downstairs, Lily screamed, “THE WI-FI’S DEAD!”
9:55 PM: May crouched in the laundry room, phone flashlight propped on a stack of towels. The power had been out for two hours, Noah’s bottles half-sterilized.
Her nursing textbook lay open to Emergency Sterilization Methods:
- Boiling water (10+ minutes)
- Chemical tablets (if potable water unavailable)
But Sarah’s handwritten rule glared from a nearby notebook: ELECTRIC BOILER ONLY. STOVE HEAT INCONSISTENT.
Thunder rumbled. May eyed the gas stove.
“Need help?”
She jumped. Sarah stood in the doorway, Noah asleep in a carrier.
“I can’t… your rule…”
Sarah stared at the textbook. “You know medical sterilization?”
“Basic training. But your instructions say—”
“Screw the instructions.” Sarah lit a camping lantern, its glow softening her features. “What would you do at a hospital?”
May hesitated. “Boil for 15 minutes. Cool in sealed container.”
“Do it.”
As May worked, Sarah studied the textbook’s margins—tiny Burmese notes beside Noah’s habits:
Prefers left arm rocking
Hiccups stop if held upright 12 minutes
Warm towel on belly eases gas
“You timed his hiccups?”
May kept her eyes on the pot. “Data helps.”
The lantern flickered. Somewhere, Lily chanted, “RAIN DANCE! RAIN DANCE!” to Tom’s beleaguered drumming.
Sarah reached for May’s notebook. “Can I…?”
A crash interrupted them—the freezer door swinging open, its contents illuminated by lightning.
“LILY CHEN!” Sarah yelled. “WHY IS THE ICE CREAM IN THE MICROWAVE?!”