All of the universe conspires to help me attain perfect health and I am thankful and grateful for that.

A tube of your blood was spun in a machine by somebody on a night shift who will never learn your name.

Behind that stands a century of people who worked out what the numbers mean, a supply chain that got the reagent into the building, a pharmacist checking a dose against a chart.

And closer in: a friend who texts on Thursdays without being asked, a neighbour who has put the bins out every week since March.

Conspiracy is the right shape for it — a great many parties acting quietly in your favour, most of them invisible to you. Whether the universe is arranged that way is a question for somewhere else. That the effort is real is not.