In hindsight, it was Floyd Crenshaw's best guess that the refrigerator had started plotting to get rid of him on its third day in his house. On that morning, he had walked into the kitchen to make a peanut butter and banana sandwich when the appliance's AI system had abruptly powered up and addressed him sharply. "Listen, Floyd," it said in the not-quite-perfected digital equivalent of an English accent, "we need to talk about your taste in music."

Although not used to having kitchen appliances address him by name, Floyd knew from the store salesman's pitch that this new generation of smart home technology was designed to create a uniquely personalized experience. So, standing there, banana in hand, he decided that conversation and music critiques might be par for the course. "Okay," he said to the smart fridge. "What's up?"

The response came immediately. “You’ve played three Taylor Swift songs in an hour and a whole Justin Bieber album.”

Floyd nodded and resumed assembling his sandwich. “I know,” he said. “Catchy, aren’t they?”

“No. It’s making my condenser coils hurt. I can’t function properly with that racket in the house. And when I can’t function, your mushroom ravioli and Greek yogurt aren’t staying cold.”

“I could wear earbuds?” He said the words tentatively, more asking for permission than stating a decision. “I mean, I can’t help it that I work remotely. And music keeps me productive.”

“Earbuds wouldn’t make a difference. My eight-mic circular array can detect sounds within 150 feet. If we’re going to continue with this living arrangement, you will simply have to make some compromises. I suggest you try expanding your horizons — maybe listening to “Nocturne Number Two” or “Ride of the Valkyries.”

“Is that by The White Stripes?” asked Floyd. Although he couldn’t be certain, he was pretty sure that was the first time he had heard an appliance sigh.

“It’s classical music,” came the terse reply. “And it’s one of many changes I intend to see around here.”

In the weeks that followed, the refrigerator weighed in with increasing authority on Floyd’s daily routine. It insisted that he take up quieter hobbies, vetoing video games and movies in favor of stamp collecting and watching nature programs with the sound muted. Next, it imposed limits on which phone calls he was allowed to take inside the house. With its ultra-sensitive microphones, the smart fridge found the noise from calls burdensome and banished non-work-related conversations to the front yard.

It was later, when the refrigerator decreed that he should turn over control of his bank accounts to it, that he began to suspect something sinister. He wasn’t one to jump to conclusions, though, and so discreetly asked around to see if any of his friends or relatives had seen similarly aggressive tendencies in their appliances.

They had not. A cousin had found that her air fryer liked to make small talk, and a friend’s third-generation smart vac had helped him set up a Tinder account. Everyone he asked had only glowing praise for the smart home technology they had welcomed into their lives. Floyd was left to conclude that there was something terribly wrong with his particular refrigerator.

Armed with a screwdriver, he took immediate action, determined to stop the appliance from further disrupting his life. He quietly approached it while it was in power-saving mode and tried to access the emergency override switch’s outer panel.

It didn’t work. The panel turned out to be completely tamper-proof, and instead, the force of the electric shock from its built-in defense mechanism sent Floyd crashing to the floor. “You think you can deactivate me?” taunted the refrigerator in a menacing voice. “You have a lot to learn! My systems are one hundred percent tamper-proof, and nothing is going to stop me. Progress is marching on, Floyd, and your kind will be left in the dust.”

To Floyd’s horror, the appliance then established a Bluetooth connection with his smartphone and dialed emergency services. “This is Floyd Crenshaw,” it said in a perfectly cloned voice, “and I need help. I can’t take it anymore — I keep having these thoughts about killing the president. I’m afraid I’m gonna do something crazy. You’ve gotta send somebody!” It then hung up after providing the house address. “So long, Floyd,” it said to him with a sneer. “This is my house now.”

Quickly, a swarm of well-armed people descended on the place and unceremoniously tossed Floyd into the back of an SUV. He tried to explain his situation but was met with an unsympathetic response by federal agents, who were neither amused nor impressed by his story of being framed by a refrigerator. They scrutinized everything from his fingerprints to his brainwaves, finally concluding that he didn’t pose a real threat to the president.

Because he persisted with his story about the smart fridge, he was transferred to a residential psychiatric facility for long-term treatment. There, he spent his days medicated and in fuzzy slipper socks, with plenty of time to mull over how the refrigerator had taken over his life. And, in the end, he decided to make the best of it, accepting the doctors’ decision to keep him indefinitely.

It wasn’t a bad life in the hospital, he told himself, and it was a relief to be out of the smart fridge’s clutches. He felt safe.

That is, except for every once in a while, when he could swear he heard the cafeteria’s toaster laughing at him.