George picked up a can when he felt the soft static in the air. The key was under one of these; he was certain he’d find it. It had only been an hour since the last time he’d needed it—surely even he wouldn’t misplace it so easily.
But each can would invariably come up short. It wasn’t underneath the soda can. It wasn’t beneath the can of bug spray. It wasn’t here; it wasn’t there.
In frustration, he cast out his hand—scattering the metal everywhere. The sound was deafening, those cheap materials crashing against the wooden table. Continue reading