Irreparably Broken

A week ago, I got a call from Bacon:

“You need to come home.”

“Why? I’m at Target.”

“Did you hear that?”

“No.”

“You can’t hear that?”

“Bacon, I can’t hear anything over the phone. What is it?”

“I don’t know. It’s a big popping sound, and I can’t figure out where it’s coming from.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Come home.”

Before I got there, he had found the source. The television sat on the floor in middle of living room.

“Listen.” He plugged the device into an electrical outlet.

When I was in college theatre, we simulated gunshots by holding a board vertically, one hand on the up end and one foot on the down end. When it was time, we let go and stepped down at the same time. The board made a sound bigger than a firecracker, but less than a cannon. That was the noise erupting from our television.

Bacon unplugged the I.E.D. and carried it out to the garage.

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