In the kitchen the voice sang.

"Tick-tock, seven o'clock, time to get up, time to get up, seven o'clock!"

As if it were afraid that nobody would. The sewers lay empty save for a few rats. The voice talked on, repeating and repeating its sounds into the emptiness.

"Seven-nine, breakfast time, seven-nine."

The toaster gave a hissing sigh and ejected from its warm interior two more pieces of perfectly browned toast which were placed on a plate with ten eggs sunny side up, and eighteen slices of bacon next to one coffee, two teas, and two cool glasses of milk. Two eggs, two toasts, and 4 bacon strips were then each placed on separate plates.

"Today is August 4," said the voice, "in the city of New York, New York." It repeated the date three times for memory's sake. "Today is August 4 in the city of New York, New York."

"Eight-one, tick-tock, eight-one o'clock, go to dojo, go to dojo, run, run, eight-one!"
But no doors slammed, no footsteps were heard. The weather channel on the television showed it was raining outside. The voice sang quietly: "Rain, rain, go away; rubbers, raincoats for today..." The door to the dojo softly opened and closed. Soft breathing could be heard as they doing their exercises.

At eight-thirty the eggs shriveled and the toast was like stone. A spatula scraped them into the sink where hot water whirled them down a metal throat which digested and flushed them away. The dirty dishes were dropped into the dishwasher.

"Nine-fifteen," sang the voice, "time to clean."

Cleaning supplies were taken out of the closet by the bathroom as they used a cloth to clean counters, a duster on shelves, and a vacuum. They thudded against bed frames, kneading the rug nap, sucking gently at hidden dust. The house was clean.

Ten-fifteen.

Until this day, how well the lair had kept its peace. How carefully they had inquired, "Who goes there? Why are you here?" and getting no answer from lonely rats scavenging. They quivered at each new sound. The lair was an altar with a thousand attendants, a big, most small. But most the gods had gone away, and the ritual of the religion continued senselessly, uselessly.

Twelve noon.

The television was turned to a recording of Space Heroes just like every other day. They sat on the isolated couch, not listening, but allowing the fact that there were other voices soften their heart.

"Two o'clock." sang the voice.

Delicately sensing decay, detestation, and depression at last, the voice hummed out as softly as blown gray leaves in a wind.

"Two fifteen." the voice whispered as they looked at a picture of their family on their bedside table. They grabbed their mask off their face gracefully and wrapped the orange around the corner of the frame. They started to cry.

Two thirty.

There would be no more of that voice as the owner now hung from a tree branch in the dojo. They had lost all their happiness and hope.

...

"Mikey?!"

"Mikey! We've escaped! We're back!"

"After all these years we finally-"