“ARE THOSE MY SOCKS?” Every week, my sock supply dwindles. Pairs have become singles. 

The monster’s head swivels toward my direction. It pockets the last of my bare-thread Gold Toes. “Sorry ‘bout that,” it grunts. “Supply chain shortage. Inflation. Unemployed. Food’s hard to come by these days.”

A wave of shame and understanding overcomes me. The Sock Monster is not a monster — just a lonely soul trying to survive in a ruthless world. “I’ve got some fuzzy Christmas-themed ones upstairs, if they’re tastier.”

Its yellow eyes glow bright like an incandescent light bulb, and something warms inside my heart.