Nighttime was still laying over the landscape like a dark shawl. In the hours soon to come the sun would cause the land to shrug the night off, but right then the Night had her way. All the people in their houses were sleeping, like normal people do, save one man with poor eating habits. He rose from bed, and blindly groped the wall for the light switch, found it, flipped it up, and then immediately flipped it down again. The light hurt his still-sleepy eyes; he could find his way to the kitchen without it. He stumbled away in his quest for a midnight snack.

In the Refrigerator, all was unrest. The Sage of the Vegetable Drawer had told his followers that his time of Expiration drew near and they needed to get the Hand to bring more somehow. He Expired soon after. His last prophesy was one of doom. He had foretold that the Hand would make another visit to the Fridge, and it would bring death to the Potato Salad. The Sage was not to be questioned. Not too long after the prophecy was made, the Sage Expired. The Fridge mourned their loss, and wondered how they'd get along without his wisdom and advice. They weren't given long, though. Soon the Hand came, and soon the Deli Tray found itself without their favorite member.

It was a dreary day in the Fridge, as they usually were. The foodstuffs had passed through all the stages of grief regarding the Sage's Expiration, and moved on. A matter of minutes had passed for humans, but time runs differently in the Fridge. The Potato Salad had long since forgotten the Sage's last vision, and was going about his daily business when the Door opened. The light flicked on and filled the shelves and drawers with a mortal dread. The Hand was coming. The Hand was coming to take Its terrible toll.

The memories came flooding back to the Potato Salad. All the fear he had felt magnified tenfold when he saw that the Hand was reaching for him. He was the one to be taken. He said goodbye to his family, his friends, his home. He said goodbye and was grabbed to by the fleshy God of the Fridge, and lifted away. The hand ripped off his plastic lid, and began to scoop out his innards with a spoon like he was an avocado. The Potato Salad would be indignant had he not been busy screaming, inaudible sounds to the owner of the Hand, but all-too audible to the Fridge dwellers. They heard him crying out to them, pleading for them to save him, and they sat in shame and impotency. He screamed and he screamed and he screamed until the Hand had put all of him into Its bowl, and ate him. He was delicious.