[ WP ] To get to emergencies quicker , all Emergency Responders are required to be clairvoyant . This morning , an ambulance , fire truck and police cars show up outside your house . Nothing has happened ... yet .

As always. Eight thirty. Ten minutes for a shower, ten minutes to eat, five minutes to get dressed and brush my teeth, twenty minutes to drive to work, and... that means I'm late. The minute or two I've spent lying in bed predicting just how late I'll be probably is n't helping the situation either. 
 
 I shrugged my shoulders, stretched, felt the cool air of the room outside my blankets touch my toes as they reached too far, reminding me that no matter where I go it's not as warm or cozy as where I am right now. Same reminder, every morning. Next up, the slippers, housecoat, staircase, toast, orange juice. Predictability. Off to the kitchen, greeted upon my arrival by the blue and red flashing lights of the morning sun as I prepared my breakfast. 
 
 Hold on. 
 
 Blue and red. The sun is n't blue and red, nor does it flash. It's supposed to be yellow, but not really yellow, more of a white, but everyone calls it yellow, but most certainly not blue and red. One step in my mind leading to the other, I realized that it's not, in fact, the sun. I ca n't predict everything. 
 
 However, looking out my windows I realized the people outside my door certainly can. An ambulance and a fire truck sit passively by, the new clairvoyant division of the city's emergency response team. This will make me at the minimum another seven minutes late. I'll probably have to greet them ( one minute ), discuss why they're appearing on my lawn ( five minutes ), and offer them coffee which they'll likely decline ( one minute ). Best get started. 
 
 `` Good morning,'' I said to the fireman. He looked every bit what one would predict in a fireman; large, bushy moustache, barrel chested, strong hands that I can guess with almost certainty would be calloused. 
 
 `` Miss Price?'' he replied without a formal good morning, likely saving me a few extra seconds. 
 
 `` Yes, I'm her.'' 
 
 `` You're about to have an accident, ma'am. Eight minutes from now.'' His tone was certain, his eyes unblinking. 
 
 `` I believe there must be a mistake. My mornings are always set in stone. Wake up, stretch, feel the cold on my toes, slippers, housecoat-'' 
 
 `` You're going to stick a fork in your toaster in an attempt to remove a burnt piece, ma'am. It's fated.'' While I found his comment fascinating, he looked entirely bored. I suppose that's the cost of becoming a clairvoyant; excitement is an entirely lost emotion. Nevertheless I was incredulous. 
 
 `` Why on earth would I-'' 
 
 `` That's not up to me, ma'am. Seven minutes from now, now. Please go back inside, and leave the door unlocked so we can assist you.'' 
 
 I did just that. I stepped inside and continued on my daily routine. I poured my orange juice and set the toast in the toaster. I expected to wait my fourty-five seconds. Fourty-five seconds never burns my toast. It makes it a delightful blend between crispy and soft, perfect timing breeding perfect toast. But what if I were to toast it perfectly once more, ignoring the clairvoyant predictions and simply completing my daily routine as I always have? Would that disrupt the universe's timing? Would I shake the very foundations of the world while preparing my morning meal, the simple act of going about my way, the normal way, causing a rift in the preordained manner of existence? 
 
 I had not anticipated an existential crisis while staring at my toaster. I was no longer counting the time. Fourty five seconds turned into two minutes while I contemplated my very being. The smell of burnt toast wafted up to my nose, that same odour being a harbinger of serious bodily harm to stroke victims, but the harm coming to me was entirely different. 
 
 I became suddenly upset with the disruption to my morning routine, angered by the unpredicted arrival of clairvoyants on my lawn, and above all, enraged by having to eat burnt toast as there was simply not enough time to make another piece. 
 
 In the fuss I realized I had still not hit the lever to raise the now charred piece of bread, the appliance itself a Doomsday clock I was fully capable of stopping but never did. Six minutes have passed since I spoke with the firefighter. I have one minute to decide if I should stand as an affront to fate. One minute to midnight. The smell became stronger. I heard the ambulance drivers at the door. 
 
 I pulled a fork from the drawer. Twenty seconds now. I'll definitely be late for work. I tried to hit the lever, but the toast had crumbled and became stuck. Ten seconds. The fate of the world against my own free will. Five seconds. The fate of the world against my morning routine. My knuckles turned white as I held the fork. 
 
 One second.
