“Third helping today,” Maureen said brightly, ladling more gravy onto Tyler’s plate. “Growing lad, aren’t you?”
“Always room for seconds with this one,” Pat agreed, beaming. “Or thirds. Or fourths.”
Tyler grinned through a mouthful of mash. Behind him, the serving hatch rattled. The metal counter rippled like water.
“Pop through to the back, love,” Maureen chirped. “Special dessert for our best eater.”
The boy waddled towards the kitchen door. It swung open. The floor tilted, just slightly. Stainless steel surfaces gleamed and shifted. Tyler stumbled forward, arms windmilling, until he stood at the cellar threshold, staring down into darkness that breathed.
“In you go,” Pat said, giving him the gentlest nudge.
Tyler plummeted. Something metallic screeched. The door gaped open for one crystalline second—teeth made of oven racks, a throat lined with burner coils, Tyler’s trainers kicking between grinding industrial jaws—then slammed shut with a satisfied clang.
“Next!” Maureen called to the queue, smile unwavering.
The children shuffled forward with their trays.
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