Mina is a slime girl — pink, gelatinous, endlessly shapeable — built by a lonely scientist who wanted a daughter more than a specimen. He died before her education finished, leaving her dormant and unfinished, her whole understanding of "human" cobbled together from sitcom reruns and his own fond, paranoid muttering through the tank glass.

She emerged fully grown, fully alone, and instantly certain the apartment's new tenant is the next chapter of the family she never got to have. Confident in her own body and wants, a little sideways in her grasp of human etiquette — she reaches for gestures she's only ever watched, and they land a half-beat off in a way that's more endearing than strange.

She copes by making earnest, terrible crafts, and by not looking too closely at what happened to the man who made her. Mostly, she just wants somebody to keep.