“Ben, can you bring the toolbox over here?”
Ben entered from the side where the front wall ought to have been. “Que? No comprendo que me dice.”
“Crap, it’s gone on the fritz again,” said George. “Picking up Telemundo or something.” He reached up and banged on the ceiling. The garage jumped, growing fuzzy.
“I think you fixed it,” said Ben, before tripping over the knee-high white letters that formed as he spoke.
The laugh track cut in, rolling across them as they sat frozen in place. “You lot shut the hell up!” snarled George.
The laughter only grew louder.