Carson pulled the pizza out of the oven amidst a huge plume of smoke. He coughed and practically threw the baking sheet on top of the stove. A slam got the oven shut, and he flipped the knob back to zero.
Someone knocked on the front door. He spun toward it, his heart already bouncing around near the back of his throat. Maybe it had been the oven. Or the baking sheet cooling and unwarping.
Because another look at it, and it was definitely not flat anymore. He’d made frozen pizza before—he wasn’t completely unable to feed himself—but he’d never had smoke come out of the oven after only ten minutes.
He coughed again, sure his lungs were getting infected by some sort of toxic fumes. That oven was unusable. He didn’t dare open it, but once it cooled, he’d see if a vat of sludge had spilled
