Peter looked up when a buzzer rang. His whites were dry. A minute later, a second buzzer rang: the dark-colored clothes were done. Something's wrong! he thought, knowing that in the past these two machine's cycles ran no more than ten seconds apart. He spotted a sticker on the top of the machine, with a number to call if it did not work. He wrote down the number, thinking he should call when he got home. As he folded the laundry, placing it carefully in the newly cleaned laundry bags, Peter felt more and more anxious, afraid to call yet knowing he should. It's my responsibility. I'm going to call. He looked at his clothes. They were clean and perfectly dry. He pictured himself talking on the phone, "Hello, this is Peter Branstill." "Yes, sir. How can I help you?" "I just came from your laundromat on Broadway. There's a terrible problem. Dryer No. 7 ran a minute too long." Peter hears a gasp. The man's breath sounds heavy. "We're on it," he says, hanging up as sirens sound, the Laundromat team on it's way. All the way home, Peter replayed this scene in his head until finally they took him, not the dryer, away.