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The Wrapper

About this time yesterday, our son was alone. In the living room. For ten minutes.

Alone with his Christmas presents, the rest of a roll of blue masking tape, a wad of rubber bands and a black Sharpie.


At which time he rigged his present pile such that he could drag the thing down the hallway with a single finger.

And he identified it lest it get lost in the bathroom and we all scratched our heads as to whose it was.


There was no proof he’d peeked. No torn paper. No patched up holes.

Just sudden concern about why he was getting a box for Christmas, when he hadn’t asked for one.


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