On the 27th day of the last month of the year, Eldred Scott Merryweather found himself running out of Walmart, screaming.
Never having been much of a Christmas shopper, he’d decided to venture into his local superstore to see whether there were any post-holiday bargains. He knew what he wanted, and he doubted they’d have it—he’d checked, even at the website—but Scott (as everyone but his mother called him) had thought, Why the heck not?
Well, he thought as he raced toward the exit, I’m finding out the answer to that right now!
The automatic doors barely opened in time for Scott as he plunged through them into the gray afternoon. He skidded to a stop near a semicircle of abandoned shopping carts and bent over, hands on his knees. His lungs burned as he went back over what had just happened.
Inside, somewhere between Seasonal Clearance and Housewares, Scott had managed to locate the very thing he’d come for: a modest electric kettle in a dented box. It had a yellow sticker that announced FINAL MARKDOWN. He’d felt a quiet sense of triumph. This, he’d thought, was how sensible adults shopped. He snatched the kettle from the shelf.
As he walked toward the front of the store to the registers, the lights flickered. Not dramatically. Just noticeably.
A cheerfully robotic, recorded voice crackled overhead, wishing everyone a very happy returns season. At that same moment, every display screen in the store reset itself to the same looping image: a smiling snowman with a long carrot nose, and imperfectly set charcoal eyes, repeating Rollback! Rollback! in a voice that grew slower with each iteration.
By the time the snowman got to Rrrrrrrooooooooollllllllllllllbaaaaaaaaaaaaccccccccccckkkkkkkk! shoppers and employees were frozen in place. Carts stopped mid-roll. Then, somewhere in the store, a bell dinged.
And Scott’s kettle began to boil.
Not just his. All of them. Every kettle box on every shelf, plus all the demo models, hissed and rattled as if waking from a long sleep. Steam leaked through cardboard seams. Whistles whistled. A woman screamed. A child laughed, then—too soon—went silent.
Scott dropped his kettle and ran.
Now, in the parking lot, the exit doors slid shut behind him with a decisive thunk. The building stood there, same as ever—big, blue, humming faintly.
Scott stopped, smoothed his hair, wiped his eyes, and laughed sharply.
“Online,” he said. “From now on, I only shop online!”
As Scott straightened himself and walked toward his car, his pocket buzzed.
Probably Mom, he thought, pulling his phone out and unlocking it. His jaw dropped as he read the alert:
Walmart App: Your kettle is back in stock.