The sound of the smoke alarm was almost drowning out the sound of the timer on the stove. Fenton could hear both now, one on top of the other.
“Fucking retard.”
“I didn’t hear it!”
“How is that possible?” Tammy pulled open the oven door and thick black smoke rolled out like thunderclouds. She launched the tray of desiccated fish sticks and sent it sailing through the air. Fenton ducked as the smoking tray spun over his head and bounced off the wall behind him. He stared at the tray on the carpet and at the scattered charcoal-crusted rectangles of fish. The light was catching in the threads of the carpet, in the crispy black coating of the fish. Gold light was pouring in from all sides, filling in all the spaces between all the objects he could see.
“I don’t believe this.”
The alarm stuttered and Tammy’s voice became slower, deeper. Fenton leaned back against the couch and looked at her through the golden haze. She was just standing there, hands on her hips.
“The parade is on Sunday,” he said, eyelashes fluttering.
“Fantastic,” said Tammy.
“The fish will be there.”
“Great. Perfect.”
“And pumpkin pie.”
Fenton thought he could hear a great cheer rising up from a crowd as he closed his eyes, as the room shuddered to the right and toppled him sideways onto the floor.