The dryer coughed with a grating, metallic buzz. Dustin stood up from the basement couch impatiently and strode carefully into the laundry room. He found the box of white, latex gloves on the shelf anchored to the plaster wall and withdrew two powdery specimens. They looked like the bitter end of a retirement party, all that's left when the cake's gone, the others have left, and the balloons are all popped and scattered on a dreary linoleum floor. He drove his hands into the gloves unmercifully, snapping the wrist bands high on his forearm with a clinical flourish.