three, it turns out, is not always a magic number

So Top Management walks into the kitchen and starts telling The Rose, The Bean and The Golden Weasel about how when we were kids Pop-Tarts came in a box with 8 Pop-Tarts, 4 pouches with 2 tarts each. And how when there were three kids in the family, this meant the tarts didn’t divide evenly and therefore someone was going to get more than the others. 

And then she says, “this shirt doesn’t fit me.”

And holds out this:

The shriek that instantly erupted from three sets of vocal cords nearly shattered every piece of glass in the house.