“I hate this job,” groaned Nortle.
“Thirty seconds,” huffed Tarn, running on the little treadmill that powered the wind-maker.
“I didn’t have to do this,” Nortle went on, poking half-heartedly at the fire. “I could have worked for the key-takers, or the ice-cube-tray-emptiers. But I thought I’d rather be helpful. It isn’t worth it. They take us for granted!”
At the end of his strength, Tarn sagged. “We’re toasters,” he said. “We make toast.”
Nortle knelt and grasped the lever. “One… two… three… HEAVE!” He sighed. “I just wish there was more to it.”
“English muffin incoming!” cried Tarn, pointing.
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