You Still Have Your Right Hand
I’m a surgeon. I understand temperature and time.
I reached for the oven handle, not knowing the digital interface had been reprogrammed hours earlier.
I pulled the door open, and a thick plume of black smoke billowed out into my face, stinging my eyes — the start of a nightmare that would cost me everything I thought I knew.
Chapter 2 — Blunt Force
The smoke alarms shrieked, a high wail that vibrated in my teeth. I coughed, waving through the cloud of charred grease, and grabbed a pair of silicone mitts.
I dragged the roasting pan onto the stovetop. The turkey was incinerated, a blackened, smoking ruin.
Before I could catch my breath to explain that the oven must have malfunctioned, the air in the kitchen changed. The tension snapped into something lethal.