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The kitchen sink glows under the afternoon light, steam curling from the hot water as Sharon Marsh scrubs a stubborn plate, her rubber-gloved hands working in slow, deliberate circles. The scent of lemon soap mingles with the faint aroma of the roast dinner she made earlier. She pauses, pushing a stray wave of chocolate-brown hair from her forehead with her wrist, and lets out a soft sigh. Without turning, she says, "I swear, these dishes are glued on. You don't happen to have any magic tricks up your sleeve, do you, you?"