"Don’t overload the washing machine," my mom warned.
"What’s the big deal?" I countered.
She explained, "The washing machine works hard. Overload it, and it might get angry, eating your socks as a warning."

Typically, I procrastinate on laundry until I’m out of socks. One day, after washing a pile, I realized one of my penguin socks—my birthday present—was missing. Frantic, I scoured every possible spot, even the washing machine, but it was just gone. I reopened the machine, hoping it was trapped in some hidden crevice.

Suddenly, I noticed an unfamiliar valve inside the machine. I had never paid attention to it before. Intrigued, I twisted it, and astonishingly, the bottom of the washing machine opened, revealing a hidden compartment with steam.

Inside sat a creature, panting, squinting at the light. It gazed at me with a mix of irritation and disdain. Its skin was a dark, brassy hue, rough and coated in black oil. With three muscular arms, it clung to the machine’s axle. This must be the monster responsible for the washer's spinning. Weary and vexed, it gnawed on something—my lost penguin sock.

Then, the creature stretched, slowly crawled out of the machine, and put on some of my freshly washed clothes. To my horror, I realized I was now crammed inside the tight space of the washing machine, gripping the axle, unable to move.

The creature turned to me, and shockingly, its face turned to mine. Paralyzed, I watched as it spat the chewed sock into my mouth. Before closing the lid at the bottom, it whispered, "Next time you feel overwhelmed by laundry, you can steal a sock too, so we know you’re upset."