Arnold had no idea when he got out of bed that he’d be electrocuted by the toaster that very morning.
His early mornings always followed the same pattern: rise at twenty minutes passed six, fill the kettle with water and place it on an element on the stove top (it wasn’t one of those automatic turn-off kettles; it was an old-fashioned kettle that whistled when it was time to take it off the heat source), put four slices of bread in the toaster, and pour a little bit of milk into one of the two cups.
Arnold’s wife, Janet, always stayed in bed until a few minutes after the kettle whistled. She would leave just enough time for the tea to draw and the toast to toast. Arnold, for forty-eight years, had always called out the same questions from the kitchen to the bedroom:
“How many slices of toast do you want, dear?”
“Two as usual, thanks dear.”
“What do you want on the toast, dear?”
“Honey as usual, dear.”
Janet snuggled up in the warm bed for the few remaining minutes. She would stay there for a little longer than usual.
The kettle whistled, and whistled. And whistled…