Every day at 5:05 p.m., my face catches on fire. It doesn’t hurt. Not sure why—it’s not like my hands can’t feel the heat. People scream, rush me to a hospital, wonder why my face stays unblemished. I’ve learned to stay in my house, or hotel room, or porta-potty when on road trips. I dream of going on those shows where celebrity judges mug, open-jawed, and hit a buzzer for me. But of course I never can—clearly someone, somewhere, with some superpower, knows what I did at 5:05 p.m., and won’t let me ever forget it.