The dryer hummed like a disgruntled bee as I crouched, fingers brushing against a lone sock—size 10, blue, with a hole in the toe. “Where are you?” I whispered, as if the sock might hear. My roommate, Jess, leaned against the doorway, eating cereal with a spoon. “You’re still looking for that thing?” they said, crunching. “It’s not a mystery, Jess. It’s a sock.” I flipped a laundry basket upside down, sending socks cascading like confetti. A neon-pink pair landed on my head. “Ugh!” I shook it off, then froze. A single sock lay hidden beneath a pile of jeans, its ankle frayed. “Found you,” I said, snatching it. Jess snorted. “You’re like a detective who solves crimes with a magnifying glass and bad life choices.” I held up the sock. “This is justice.” “Yeah, yeah,” they said, already scrolling their phone. “Just don’t leave it in the dryer again. Last time, it smelled like burnt popcorn.” I glared. “That was a *fluke*.” The dryer beeped. I stared at the now-empty drum. “Wait…” I whispered. Jess choked on cereal. “What?” “The other sock…” I said, slowly. Jess dropped the bowl. “No way.” “Yes way,” I said, pointing at the drum. A lone sock—size 10, blue, with a hole in the toe—sat there, innocent as a puppy. “I’m gonna kill myself,” I muttered. Jess burst into laughter. “You’re not a detective. You’re a sock magnet.” The dryer hummed on, indifferent.
