‘It wasn’t only the sewing machine,’ said Crane. ‘My typewriter had it, too.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ yelled McKay. ‘Tell me what it is.’
‘You know,’ said Crane patiently. ‘That sewing machine …’
‘I’ve had a lot of patience with you, Crane,’ said McKay, and there was no patience in the way he said it. ‘I can’t piddle around with you all day. Whatever you got better be good. For your own sake, it better be plenty good!’ The receiver banged in Crane’s ear.
Crane went back to the kitchen. He sat down in the chair before the typewriter and put his feet up on the table.
First of all, he had come early to work. And that was something that he never did. Late, yes, but never early. And it had been because all the clocks were wrong. They were still wrong, in all likelihood — although, Crane thought, I wouldn’t bet on it. I wouldn’t bet on anything. Not any more, I wouldn’t.
He reached out a hand and pecked at the typewriter’s keys:
‘You knew about my watch being fast?’
I knew, the machine typed back.
‘Did it just happen that it was fast?’