"My wife!" George yelled. "Pressure cooker."
The cop grinned and nodded to say he understood, and roaring ahead waved them to follow. The siren started up again.
They lost him when they turned off the freeway and raced past the supermarket to their street. Sunnydale looked peaceful in the afternoon. George's house came in view. He heaved a sigh of relief as the cabbie pulled to a stop.
"Rosy!" he yelled, dashing up the walk.
He flung open the door and stopped. The house was silent except for Rosy's voice in the kitchen. She was counting backwards:
"Five ... four ... three...."
"Rosy!"
"One ... zero."
A steaming hiss sounded in the kitchen. In a moment it rose to a howling pitch. There was a tremendous crash and a tremor shook the plaster from the walls.
In the settling dust Timmy crawled out of the kitchen with a pot on his head.