Sheldon stands in the kitchen, stopwatch in hand, muttering to himself, "Four seconds over. The beans win this round."
"Ready…" (He puts a toy whistle in his mouth and blows a tiny, pathetic squeak.)
"It’s a naming convention, Missy. VP1: front door. VP2: back door. VP3: the garage service door via a temporary egress corridor created by moving your clutter, Dad."
"Exactly. A lawnmower with a combustible fuel source. In a fire, that’s an accelerant. In a flood, an anchor. In a home invasion, a tripping hazard for the invader—fine, I’ll concede that one."
"Sheldon, we’ve been over this. The front door, the back door, and in a real emergency, the window in your room."
