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Margeaux stood in the laundry room holding a sock. It was Damien’s, her youngest son’s, and it didn’t have a partner. She gave the neatly folded clothes a dirty look, hoping this might shame the abandoned sock’s counterpart into crawling out from whatever shirt or pair of pants it was holed up in. She knew chaos was inevitable, but why oh why couldn’t she find some semblance of order while folding her family’s clothes?
"Honey?" her husband called to her as he tromped down the stairs wearing his fuzzy Taz slippers and pink Barney the Dinosaur robe. "Did you scramble the eggs?"
"Dudley," she said, stepping from the laundry room into the kitchen, holding up the matchless sock. "It’s happened again."
Dudley stopped at the bottom of the stairs and stared at her. "What’s a sock got to do with breakfast?"
Margeaux stomped back into the laundry room, got on her hands and knees and stuck her head inside the dryer. The variegated dryer’s walls were clean. If only this was an oven and I could turn on the gas, she thought. She extracted her head from the portal. I put the socks in the washer last night, she said to herself. Then, before I went to bed, I took them out. I was very careful not to drop any, and made sure they all had mates before dropping them in the dryer. She clenched her teeth. So where the hell is Damien’s sock! Things don’t just disappear … do they?