Then a clank, like metal hitting metal inside the machine.
Then nothing. Just silence and a drum half-full of soapy water that wasn’t going anywhere.
“Is it dead?” Milo asked from the bathroom doorway. He was four years old with my ex-wife’s dark hair and a tendency toward pessimism that seemed way too developed for a preschooler. “Did it die, Dad?”
I stared at the washer, my hand still on the dial I’d been turning to try different settings. Nothing. The thing was completely unresponsive, and water was just sitting there with sheets soaking in it.
“Yeah, bud,” I said, sitting back on my heels. “It fought the good fight, but I think this is the end.”
Nora appeared behind Milo—eight years old, practical to a fault, already crossing her arms the way her mother used to when she was about to deliver bad news.
“We can’t not have a washer, Dad,” she said, as if I hadn’t immediately grasped this fact. “We have to do laundry. That’s not optional.”
“I’m aware,” I said.
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