I tried again, pushing it in firmly, but the brass contacts inside the wall seemed to offer no resistance at all.
“The plug just slides right out of the wall like there is nothing holding it,” I said, looking down at the loose fitting.
Toby did not answer. He stared at the outlet, then quickly shoved his green pen into his front pocket and pulled his hands deep into his sleeves.
“Did you touch this outlet yesterday, Toby?” I asked.
“No,” he said, his voice barely louder than a whisper as he looked at the front door.
I bent down to look closer at the brass plate, noticing a faint, sweet chemical odor lingering near the baseboard heater, but the yellow bus brake squealed out on Birch Street before I could ask him anything else. He was up and out the door in an instant, leaving the front door swinging open in the cool morning air.
That afternoon, the house was quiet except for the low hum of the old refrigerator in the kitchen. Toby came home from school and sat on the living room sofa, his tablet already propped on his knees while his fingers flew across the glass screen.
I sat at the other end of the couch with the mending basket, winding and unwinding the silver wristwatch my husband had left on the dresser five years ago. The crown was smooth and worn, a comforting weight in my palm that usually helped settle my thoughts.
Toby shifted his weight to reach for his pencil box, and his elbow knocked against his side. A small grey object slipped from his pocket and landed on the cushion between us.
He scrambled to grab it, his hand darting out faster than usual, but he was not quick enough to keep me from seeing the distorted shape.
“What is that you have there, Toby?” I asked, reaching out my hand
He held his arm behind his back, his small shoulders bunching up tight toward his ears as he pressed himself into the corner of the sofa.
“Nothing,” he said.
“It looked like one of your plastic space figures,” I said, keeping my voice soft and steady. “Let me see.”
He hesitated, his fingers twisting behind his shirt, before slowly bringing his hand around. He laid the grey plastic astronaut in my palm, his eyes fixed on the worn carpet.
The left side of the toy was completely ruined. The smooth grey plastic had bubbled and run together, forming a hard, shiny glob where the astronaut’s arm and oxygen pack should have been.
It smelled faintly of chemical soot, the same sharp scent that had been lingering near the kitchen counter the night before.
“How did this happen?” I asked, turning the ruined toy over.
“I don’t know,” he said, his voice dropping into his collar. “It just got hot.”
“Where did it get hot, Toby?”
“My desk,” he said, though his eyes drifted toward the hallway where the loose outlet sat in the dark.
He snatched the toy back, holding it tightly in his fist, and stood up from the sofa without another word. He walked quickly to his bedroom, and through the open door, I watched him slide his desk drawer open, drop the toy inside with a soft plastic clunk, and push the drawer shut with his hip.
By four o’clock, the autumn air had turned crisp, and I walked down to the corner hardware store to clear my head. The store smelled of linseed oil and swept concrete, a familiar scent that usually made me feel at ease when the house felt too small.
Behind the counter, a young clerk with a pencil behind his ear was sorting brass screws into small plastic bins.
“Can I help you find something, Mrs. Vance?” he asked.
“I need to look at outlet covers,” I said. “And maybe the receptacles themselves. The brass ones in my hallway are getting loose.”
“Aisle four, right next to the wire nuts,” he said, pointing with his pencil.
I walked down the narrow aisle, my shoes squeaking on the linoleum. On the bottom shelf, right next to the heavy-duty surge protectors, sat a large wire basket filled with cheap, unbranded grey phone chargers.
They were wrapped in thin clear plastic bags with no cardboard labels, no safety warnings, and no manufacturer names. I picked one up, feeling the light, hollow weight of the plastic adapter in my hand.
It was the exact same unlabelled grey charger that had been humming on my kitchen counter, the one that had felt hot enough to scorch wood.
“Are these good chargers?” I asked, carrying one back to the counter.
The clerk glanced at the grey plastic block and shrugged, his eyes already drifting back to his brass screws.
“They sell fast,” he said. “People buy them because they are only four dollars. The certified ones on the wall are twelve.”
“Do they get warm when you use them?” I asked.
“Most cheap stuff runs a little hot,” he said. “But people like the price.”
set the grey plastic charger back in its basket, my fingers feeling cold as I walked out into the October afternoon.
When I got home, Brenda was already in the kitchen, her purse dumped on the yellowing counter and her phone plugged into the wall. She was tapping the screen with her thumb, her face tight as she scrolled through a long list of numbers.
The pot roast was bubbling in the slow cooker, filling the room with the heavy scent of onions and carrots, but it did not cover the faint smell of hot dust from the baseboard heaters.
“I went to the hardware store today,” I said, setting my coat on the back of a chair.
“That’s nice, Mother,” Brenda said, her fingers moving in rapid, unfinished jerks across her screen. “We need to get those leaves in the yard raked before the city inspector comes next month.”
“The outlets in the hallway are loose, Brenda,” I said, sitting down at the table. “The vacuum plug fell right out of the wall this morning.”
