Herbert slid his shirt on over the bandages covering his sides. The wounds were painful, but not crippling.
Picking up the steel letter opener, he realized he didn’t really care how he had come to be here. All he cared about was getting out.
Unfortunately, he still had no socks.
I gave my dad a pair of socks for Fathers’ Day. They were gray and had a mouse face on them with whiskers sticking out from the toes.
They were a gag gift, but he wore them all day.
I also paid to reattach his toe after the cat incident.
“Cralston! Bring me a letter opener!”
Herbert Cralston blearily lifted his head, fished around inside his desk with one hand while haphazardly tucking his shirt in with the other, slipped on his leather shoes, then stood and wobbled into his boss’s office.
Too late, he realized he’d forgotten his socks.