Last Saturday when I folded the laundry, I discovered that there was one sock missing.

Dutifully, I went back into the basement and carefully swept my hand around the base of the washing machine’s agitator.

Nope, no sock there.

I checked the dryer and it wasn’t there either.

So I went over every inch of the route between the basement and the bedroom to see if I may have dropped a sock along the way. Not that I could see.

Hmm, it must have gotten rolled up into a sweatshirt or something, I thought. So I went over each newly folded shirt.

Not there.

Stymied in my search, I put the orphaned sock on the shelf behind the HomePod, expecting the errant sock would turn up eventually.

And forgot about the whole thing.

* * *

A few minutes ago, I noticed something odd pressed against my tummy. A little extra bulge where no bulge oughta be. Thinking that my undershirt had rolled up or something like that, I felt under there and— 

—and pulled out the sock.

It had worked its way into the undershirt and lay flat in there all this time so that even when I pulled it on this morning, I hadn’t noticed it. Until I started moving around.