You look the bellhop in the eye and say, “Granny Elsie told me—bring something that tells a story. That’s what makes a good potluck dish.”

The bellhop ponders and the air stills while he does. He nods slowly. “Wise words. True words. But words alone don’t fill a plate.” He steps back, his form flickering slightly. “I’ve heard many stories down here. Some sweet, some bitter. But I need more than a memory. I need something I can hold.”

He gestures to the tray once more. “Try again.”