"Janet, have you done your laundry?" Her father's voice came down the stairs, and she set her jaw and waited. "Janet—" "Not yet, Dad," she yelled. She stared at her hamper, overflowing with a dribble of shirts and a bra hanging down to pile up on the floor, like it had torn her favorite book. "Fine," she said under her breath. She lugged the hamper down the hall to the washing machine.

Hamper on the floor before the machine's yawning mouth, she heard it. "Oooonnnneeeee moooooorrrrreeee," it croaked. "Ooooooonnnnneeeeee lllloooooosssssssst sssssoooooock." She stared into its dark maw. "Aaannnnnnnnnd IIIIIIII aaammmmmmmm fffrrrreeeeeeeeee."

Janet looked around its edges, hoping yet again she'd see a power cord she could cut. "Janet, would you get that load started already?" Janet growled to herself and started heaving her laundry wad by wad into the hungry, thieving mouth. It laughed, low and quiet and evil.

She had a lot of laundry after putting it off for so long. The arrogant laughter grew muted under the fill of soiled clothes, but no less arrogant. She slammed the machine closed and set it running.

"It's sandal weather, asshole," she said, and its victorious laughter turned to shocked surprise.