I had to negotiate space with them. We eventually agreed that my food would occupy the top shelf and freezer. The Fridgefolk claimed the middle and bottom shelves, both crisper drawers, and all side compartments.

At first, the Fridgefolk regarded me with mild governmental irritation. This changed after The Great Salsa Spill.

I hadn’t eaten all day, and by midnight I was starving. I took out a family-sized jar of salsa and shoveled tortilla chips into my mouth. The chip corners scraped my throat as I swallowed. Salt collected at the corners of my lips.

The next morning, I realized the salsa jar had tipped over, spilling onto the shelves beneath it. I found tiny emergency crews digging survivors from beneath a sea of tomato.

After that, they began sounding alarms whenever I approached the refrigerator after dark, their eyes already narrowed before I opened the door.

It happened fast. One minute I’d be stumbling into the kitchen, bleary-eyed and shaking, and the next the kitchen table would be covered in evidence: tortilla chip crumbs, ripped granola bar wrappers, cold macaroni straight from the container, slices of cheese sweating beneath the overhead light. I’d sit there wide-eyed, stomach aching, studying the carnage.

When I tried to put the food away, the Fridgefolk were usually already beginning repairs. The tiny emergency crews rebuilt homes with bread ties and popsicle sticks while others salvaged what they could.

I asked whether they could relocate. I told them I’d ask around, see if anyone else had refrigerator space. But I knew they’d been there too long. Entire neighborhoods crowded the shelves now. Their population had outgrown evacuation.

I tried showing them to a man I was sleeping with once. He stared into the refrigerator for a long time while the Fridgefolk scattered behind the condiment bottles, tiny feet thundering against the shelves.

“You really need to clean this thing out,” he said.

He never spent the night again.

In March I learned they developed organized religion. One day when I starved myself for a particularly long stretch (I had made it to 7pm), I opened the fridge to find the Fridgefolk kneeling before a butter sculpture carved in my likeness. Someone had fashioned ceremonial robes from string cheese. Children placed offerings at the sculpture’s feet: celery strings, crumbs of feta, half a blueberry. Hymns echoed from the egg carton district whenever my stomach growled.

I stood there smiling as the sculpture sagged beneath the refrigerator light.

Our relationship improved after that, though we still had ups and downs. Whenever my stomach growled, the Fridgefolk rang warning bells molded from Babybel wax, olive pits for clappers. They began collective prayer. Just over the refrigerator hum, I swear I could hear the words mercy and endure.

I still had episodes, some worse than before. But there were longer stretches in between now, and the Fridgefolk rebuilt.

Most nights I would stumble down the stairs and open the fridge, certain I could not endure another minute, only to find the Fridgefolk gathered beneath a butter statue, heads bowed in prayer. Beyond them, yellow light glowed from the homes tucked between the shelves. Children slept safely beneath blankets made from napkins and tea bag wrappers. Mothers rocked babies in bottle-cap cradles. Entire neighborhoods rested peacefully in the stillness of my restraint.

I would close the refrigerator door, go back upstairs and tell myself: You can last a little longer.

For about two weeks I’ve been confined to my bed, too weak to walk, but tonight I forced myself down the hallway. My knees leave wet streaks across the hardwood where the skin tears away. My vision tunnels until the apartment becomes a long dark throat leading toward the refrigerator light.

I press my forehead to the door and listen to them singing inside. I can’t make out the words, just the ringing of voices rising and falling. The sound is so sweet that for the first time in months my chapped lips crack into a smile. I close my eyes and let it feed me.

By morning, the Fridgefolk had never been safer.