Tim’s new vibrating toothbrush had stopped vibrating. It didn’t matter how much Tim jabbed the “On” switch, how much he shook it. He looked down at the brush and it looked back, its tired bristles jutting out at random angles now after only two weeks of use. It seemed to say, “No more.”

On the drive into work Tim found it very difficult to think of anything but the toothbrush. Why had it given up? Was it something he’d done? Had it looked to its future, spending three months scrubbing against his teeth twice a day, and decided to take its own life? What was so fundamentally wrong that it felt it couldn’t continue?

He got very little work done that day, instead doodling a small collective of toothbrushes in his notepad. He’d decided in the morning to go out and buy a new one at lunchtime, but ended up staying at his desk.

For weeks, he couldn’t focus. He ended up quitting his job. He was evicted from his apartment and ended up sleeping on a friend’s coach.

It’d never occurred to him to check the battery.