I don't know about your neck of the woods, but here in Backroads, darkness reigns at 6:20 a.m.
That's a time we are halfway through our morning routine. Hick leaves for work at 6:00. The Pony and I leave thirty minutes later. And Genius snoozes until the last minute from which he can careen into the school parking lot five minutes before the bell.
Imagine my surprise when I heard an entity lurching across the porch. The back door screeched open. Shinbones without feet attached stumped across the kitchen floor. Oh, wait. I'd know the sound of Hick's tread anywhere. My first thought was that Hick had taken ill. "What's wrong? Are you sick?"
"No." He stumped some more. Now that it was not a life and death matter, my mind turned to other scenarios. Because Hick is not one to volunteer information. Perhaps he forgot some keys for work. No. He would have hollered for The Pony to run to the bedroom and fetch them. Maybe he needed to answer the call of his diuretic. No. He can do that beside the car. I suppose the ENTIRE BAG OF MIXED VEGETABLES that he consumed on Monday could still be clawing their way down his duodenum. No. He stopped in the kitchen.
"Why did you come back?"
"I forgot Steve's eggs."
Seriously? He came back home to pick up a carton of eggs he's selling for $1.50 to a guy at work? He used $4.00 of gas to get $1.50 in eggs?
Something is wrong with Hick's business model.