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The smell of burning corn bread wafts over to my spot on the Pisa lounger.
"Fuck," I cry, kicking down the footrest and running into the kitchen, socks aiding my hasty slide to prevent an inferno.
A stream of black smoke escapes from the oven door, and when I open it to investigate, a huge cloud rolls over me and immediately infiltrates the smoke detector. Amidst the wailing, I grab the oven mitts and yank the pan of burnt cinders from the rack, tossing it into the sink and dousing it with cold water.
"No emergency," I assure Alarm Central.
