--- Chapter Eleven ---
Mr. Donson wiped the sweat off his brow. It was unusually hot in the kitchen, for a fall evening. But after a long day of working with complex numbers on Veterson's computer, his baked macaroni and cheese would be well worth the wait.
"Honey, can you bring me some aspirin? I'm not feeling real good tonight…"
"I think you mean to say that you're not feeling 'very well,' right dear? Ah, I love being a grammar teacher," Mr. Donson said as he laughed heartily.
"The medicine, pumpkin?"
"Ah, right, right. Hold on. My casserole will be done any minute now," Mr. Donson replied casually to his wife as he intently watched a cheerleading special on the television in the living room. "Did you see that? That girl just got her teeth knocked out!"
"Honey!" Mrs. Donson moaned again, lying on her back on the couch. "Please!"
Mr. Donson sighed, grabbing the bottle of aspirin and the television remote. "All right, dear." He promptly handed her the aspirin and began to channel surf. He found an episode of 'The Simpsons.' "Ah, here we go…" Mr. Donson began to sit down, but jumped right back up again as the timer on the oven started to beep obnoxiously.
"Honey, could you hand me my coffee cup on the table next to the big stack of band folders? I need some water."
"Yes, dear…" Mr. Donson was getting slightly worried about his baked macaroni and cheese in the oven. It was a very sensitive dish, according to the recipe. In a few more minutes, his extensively planned dinner might be ruined. He hurriedly dashed to the table, grabbed the coffee cup, and ran over to the couch to hand it to Mrs. Donson.
"Thank you, sweetie," Mrs. Donson managed to mumble before finishing off the contents of her coffee cup in a few feeble sips.
Mr. Donson, by this time, was already back to the oven. He opened the door hastily and reached for the glass casserole dish with his left hand. "Ouch!" he yelped, immediately releasing the dish and cradling his hand tenderly. He'd forgotten his oven mitt.
Refraining from shouting expletives, Mr. Donson ran his hand briefly under cold water before snatching an oven mitt for his right hand and pulling out his golden brown casserole. He took a step back to admire his work. "Perfect," he said, nodding approvingly. "What do you think, dear?"
He heard only the faint ticking of a clock and the muffled voice of Bart Simpson.
"Dear?" he asked again, turning off the oven and removing his oven mitt. Mr. Donson peered into the living room cautiously. He watched in horror as Mrs. Donson's eyes rolled back into her head and her coffee cup fell to the ground, almost as if in slow motion.
Mr. Donson heard a panicked shout, but was unaware that it was his own. He raced to the side of his wife, oblivious to the fact that his bare feet were stepping through deep puddles of dark water.
As the flashing lights headed up the street several minutes later, the casserole stood alone.