A couple are head out for dinner one night, leaving their baby at home in the capable hands of a teenage sitter. The first half of the night passes pleasantly enough, and both of them are thoroughly enjoying their meal, when the man's mobile rings. It's the sitter. She sounds . . . strange.
"The baby's asleep," she said, "and I put the turkey in the over like you asked."
"Turkey?" says the man. "What turkey?" Neither he nor his wife had any kind of turkey in the house.
"You left . . . on the table you left a turkey. You said to, um . . ." The sitter tails off, sounding uncertain. Then she hangs up.
Worried, the couple decide to cut short their dinner and head home. When they arrive they find the sitter curled up on the sofa, crying hopelessly. There's a distinct smell of marijuana in the air . . . and at first the couple think that's all it is. She smoked a few joints and got a little paranoid: careless, but nothing terrible.
Then they go through to the kitchen.
In a flash they see what has happened. Out of her head on the drugs, the babysitter became confused. There never was a turkey. Only their baby. Sitting on top of the oven in a metal dish is what remains of their child, his skin blackened and crisped and cooked.
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