The clock had just struck nine when Bobby decided to make a kettle of tea, read, and head to bed. He put the teapot on the stovetop and rested on the couch, drawing a book from his shelf. He was tired, though, and fell asleep - and slept right through the whistle of the kettle. The smoke was what awoke him, billowing from the kitchen into his living room, discoloring the pages of his book, making him cough. He crawled to the kitchen to see it in flames; the teapot just barely visible on the stovetop, withering.

The bulldozer came the next day to clear the wreckage. Although not visible, Bob’s heart was part of that wreck. He had lived in his home for over thirty years and the teapot had been a gift from his mother, who was now deceased. He watched as the house was razed. His neighbor, a woman he had oddly enough never spoken to, came to stand by his side. He heard the click of her stilettos on the pavement for a while before she stood near him, arms crossed.

“Terrible,” she said, shaking her head. “I suppose you’ll need some extra money to clean this up, get back up on your feet?”

He thought it was an odd question, but he did. He hadn’t thought that far ahead. “I’ll figure it out when the time comes,” said Bob.

“You know, I have a job I’m looking to fill. A … unique position, for a unique man?”

Bob smirked. “How can I say no at a time like this?”

The woman smiled. “I thought as much.”

____

Bob’s friends were shocked to see him as a sideshow attraction, flailing to grasp at bottles he was supposed to be balancing and juggling. “Is that really him?” They would ask, wondering. “Yes, after the fire, he become someone else entirely,” others would answer. They would shake their heads and go home, grateful for their fire-less kitchens.