Chapter 7
Socks with Stories
The socks, it turns out, are not just any socks. They can talk! They explain their plight: lost and separated from their owners. They implore the narrator for help in finding their way back home.
The lid of the treasure chest creaked open with a groan that sounded suspiciously like a yawn. I leaned closer, my heart thumping a jig against my ribs. Gold? Jewels? A dragon’s hoard, perhaps? My eyes widened, and then… they narrowed. And then they might have bugged out a little. Because instead of glittering riches, the chest was overflowing with… socks.
Not just any socks, mind you. These socks were spectacular. There was a fluffy pink one with glittery stripes, a sensible grey woolly one with a slightly frayed heel, a neon green athletic sock with a lightning bolt emblem, and a tiny, impossibly soft baby sock the colour of a summer sky. And as I stared, dumbfounded, the pink one wiggled.
Then the grey one cleared its throat.
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