Doll rinses and spits just like she's always been told to. Not too aggressively, not enough to drain her mouth of the taste of cold mint; just enough for comfort. Comfortingly routine.
But (of course there's a but) the sink growls at her as she spits.
For a long moment she doesn't realize that she's heard it. Her mind is so far away, yet not far enough to catch her eyes and hold them fast; her gaze sinks down as inevitably as any sunset.
There's—
In the sink's bowl—
Oh, but that shouldn't be there—
Doll panics, just a bit.