WEBVTT
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To the restless, the insomniacs, the stressed out, the overwork
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the doom scrollers, the worried, and the board. This is
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for you. Good writing is meant to make you think.
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This is the opposite. Short, funny, and unfortunately true stories
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that have mostly to do with nothing to help you
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turn off your brain and turn on your ram. All
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names have been changed to protect the guilty. These are
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anxiety addicts bed time stories.
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The anxiety that seeped into Cora's brain didn't stop in
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that body part. There was the knot in her stomach,
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which reminded her of the wet tingled mess of clothes
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knotted up in the corner of the fitted sheet in
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the dryer, And it was a toss up as to
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which mess was harder to figure out in another life.
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Before she was a mom of three, Cora had been
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a project manager. She was used to juggling a dozen
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people's different needs, schedules and too do lists. But this
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skill set wasn't easily translating to her home because these employees,
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sorry children, didn't receive a salary and thusly had no
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motivation to listen. Cora tried to make herself laugh, imagining
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her brew dressed in pantsuits and ties, waddling into cubicles,
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smearing peanut butter and slime on every available surface. But
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she was running on fumes, and there was no well
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of energy for any kind of smile, let alone a
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legitimate chuckle. There was, of course, all the usual housekeeping,
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the never ending pile of laundry with stains that occasionally
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made her shudder when she contemplated their origins. It was funny.
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When she'd been pregnant with her first baby, a son
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who they ended up appropriately naming Wiley, she had a
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friend tell her that there was nothing your kids could
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ever do to gross you out. The diapers, the vomit,
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the messes. Being a mother would make you immune to
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reacting to any of these quagmires of parenthood. When Wiley
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had his first stomach bug after eating a dinner of blueberries, chicken,
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and pickles, Cora quickly learned that this assumed universal truth
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did not apply to her. She vomited right alongside her
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ten month old, and she hasn't eaten a pickle in
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seven years. Wiley wasn't the problem. He was a good kid.
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Now seven years old and a few months into second grade,
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He got into the usual shenanigans. And yes, she did
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catch him in the neighbor daring and succeeding in getting
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each other to eat worms after the rain storm yesterday,
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But she didn't have to helicopter him for the most part.
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And even though the idea made Cora want a puke
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and hide in a closet, there probably wasn't anything wrong,
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at least from a health perspective, with eating worms. Her
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second kid, Penelope, wasn't exactly a tornado of childhood energy either.
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Penelope loved arts and crafts and fixing things. Cora had
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learned from a very young age that putting her middle
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child in a kitchen chair with some glue, popsicle sticks
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and buttons could entertain the munchkin for easy ninety minutes.
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If she and her husband Bobby were being honest. The
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ease of raising Penelope had made them want to try
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for a third and that's how eighteen months earlier they'd
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found themselves in a familiar wing of the hospital, welcoming
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Bobby Junior. Bobby had been a different kind of kid
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than his brother and sister from day one. First of all,
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when he came out all wriggly and kicking and screaming.
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The doctor counted four blood blisters on each heel. Cora
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had certainly been kept awake at night for months at
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the end of this pregnancy with his kicking, but hadn't
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realized that even in utero, Bobby Junior knew how to
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get attention. He'd started crawling at six months old, which
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made him highly ambulatory from almost the get go, and
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Cora had already been prone to anxiety and what was
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in retrospect probably a little bit of postpartum depression. So
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for the past year she had been on extremely high alert.
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She was such a light sleeper that she'd wake up
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when the wind changed direction, even when all of their
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bedroom windows were closed. She'd rushed to Wiley's room for
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a bad dream, or Cora's for a whimper and a
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drink of water, and then Bobby Junior's, as he seemed
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to think that three am was the perfect time for
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the whole family to wake up and engage with a
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stimulating conversation in baby babbel. Yeah, she was exhausted. If
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you listen to us, because you too have difficulty sleeping.
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You know the toll that endless hours awake and the
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night can take. You can feel so great, but also
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confused and disoriented. Maybe you find yourself talking to people
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and saying things like I don't know, I've already told
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you this, but and then they interrupt you, hopefully gently,
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and say, yes, you told me about it at midnight
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and at two am and at five point thirty, and
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then you called me about it this morning. Or you
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do something like put your dog in the car instead
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of your kid. Maybe you lose the remote control and
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find it in the cheese drawer next to the cold cuts.
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You may leave the house wearing two different shoes, or
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have forgotten the shoes altogether, and find yourself at your
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local Kroger in your nineties bunny slippers. These are all
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hypothetical situations, but this was the headspace where Cora found
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herself living, and there was this mental health cherry on top.
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She was unconsciously becoming a little paranoid, which makes sense.
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If you feel like you can't trust your own brain,
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how do you trust anybody else's shuffling out of the
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grocery store with all the things that she didn't need
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forgetting both whole milk and children's tile and all her
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bunny slipper's soft bottom repeatedly pierced by the parking lot's gravel.
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Cora walked up and down the spaces, searching for her
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silver Mini van. It wasn't where she left it. She
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knew it. It stolen, she told herself, and her stomach
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sank to just above one of the bunny's pink ears.
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Now what call the police, Tell the manager? The milk
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was going to go bad in the sun. While she waited,
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Cora had yet to realize that she'd forgotten all the
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dairy products. She pulled out her keyfop frantically pressing the
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lock button, straining her good ear for the reassuring sound
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of a toyota's beep. Just as she thought that she
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heard a muffled noise, she was interrupted. Mama Cora whipped
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her head around and saw a little eighteen month old
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Bobby Junior had managed to wiggle himself out of the
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cart's child's seat and was climbing down the side to
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open the can of pringles that she'd bought while thinking
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about soccer sign ups. Oh, Cora, Bobby, she screamed, catching
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his pudgy body before it blopped onto the ground. And
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that's when the shopping cart began to roll, Cora chased it,
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Bobby wailing on her hip the store of Starbucks employees
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enjoying the frantic mother show on their smoke break. The
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cart picked up speed heavy with the weight of Seltzer
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water on a two for one special. It rolled and weaved,
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and then slammed directly into a bumper, leaving a dent
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the sides of a toddler's fist. Luckily, it was a
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twenty sixteen Ciena minivan, and okay, maybe this wasn't lucky,
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but it was hers. Once the grocery bags were loaded
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into the trunk, Baby Bobby was strapped into his car seat,
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and Pringle's cans were opened. Because who could even deal
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with thinking about calories at a time like this. Cora
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sat in the driver's seat, blasted the ac and refused
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to cry. You got this, she told herself, It's just
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the babyface. Soon you can go back to work. Maybe
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Bobby's parents will finally move to town and be able
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to help. She was very conflicted about the idea of
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sharing a zip code with her in laws, but this
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was a desperate moment. When they got home, cor chugged
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two cups of coffee and forced herself to tackle her
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to do list. She picked up the house, put away
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the kids clothed, vacuumed the previous night's popcorn fight, folded
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her four hundredth load of laundry, put the groceries away,
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and prepped dinner. She put Bobby in a stroller, this
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time triple checking that he was buckled in, and took
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the dog around the block. She got back in the car,
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picked up Penelope, then Wiley, then her husband's allergy prescription
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at the pharmacy. She was all the way home before
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she remembered that she had forgotten the milk. It was Tuesday,
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so Cora made tacos. It was supposed to be an
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easy dinner, meant to take the mental load off and
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facilitate an easy cleanup. But dinner for a family of
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five is never easy, unless you're a bunch of grizzly
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bears all feasting on the same dead elk. But even
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then someone had to go out and kill it, so
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you know, never easy. Bobby the dad, put down Bobby
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the baby, and Cora got the older two into a
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bath in their pajamas. She begged, pleaded, and cajoled for
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them to brush their teeth, their hair, and agree on
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a bedtime story. Then get cups of water, band aids
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for Owie's ointments for bug bites, and pillowcases without quote
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unquote scary ducks on them. By the time she turned
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out the lights, Cora had one of those nights where
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you fall asleep within seconds of your head hitting an
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alien printed pillow in a three year old's twin bed.
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Cora didn't even realize she'd fallen asleep until around midnight,
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when she woke with a start. Maybe it was her
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surprise at not remembering falling asleep in the first place.
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Maybe it was the sheer, total and all encompassing a exhaustion.
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Maybe it was a weird sound, or a pot fell
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from the drying rack next to the kitchen sink. The
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point is, who knows what it is, but a familiar
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pit of anxiety formed immediately in her stomach. She pushed
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her feet into her decomposing bunny slippers and walked downstairs,
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and what she saw she will never forget. The kitchen
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had been ransacked. Corrus stood on the bottom stair, clutching
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the banister, her lips stretched apart like a big mouth bass.
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She tried to call Bobby's name, but the words were
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stuck somewhere in her throat. She opened and closed her eyes,
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maybe ten or eleven times, just trying to take it
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all in. Every drawer was open, its contents spilling out
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into the home depot flooring. Boxes of food and utensils
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had been dumped and spread across the counter and area.
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Rug A brown goo covered the kitchen island wall. Was
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that feces and the ants had already found a path
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to the chaos. Lights were on the couch, cushions were
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utterly disheveled. Cora turned and sped up the stairs, shaking
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her husband from his sleep, trying her best to form
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at least one cohesive thought. Someone broke in. She yell,
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whispered into his startled face. I'll call the police, he said,
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picking up his phone off the nightstand. You go check
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on the kids. Cora raced to the children's bedrooms and
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thanked whatever entity above, ensured that they were all fine
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and sleeping soundly. Cora grabbed her pink robe from the
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bathroom floor and stood at her bedroom window, her heart
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pounding like an exploding bomb in her chest, waiting to
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see the lights of a police car. Bobby held her
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close as they stayed on the phone with the operator.
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How do we know the perpetrator has left the premises,
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Bobby asked the dispatcher. If Cora had anywherewithal, she would
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have found her husband's choice of language funny, But everything
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was too scared. Smile. The officers will enter through the
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front door and sweep the first floor while you wait.
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Copy that, said Bobby, who worked in sales and watched
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too much dateline, mister Green, the officers responding or saying
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that the front door is locked. Cora heard the words
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through the receiver and stared at her husband with a
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face of terror and shock. He locked the door behind him.
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She whispered to Bobby, Sir, is there another door? The
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dispatcher prompted the backsliding door by the porch. Bobby whispered
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into the phone. He waited for the police officers to
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canvass the back of his house, find the dangerous criminal
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and be interviewed by Channel eleven eyewitness news. Sir, that
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door is locked as well. Do you feel comfortable coming
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down and letting them in? This time, it was Bobby
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who looked like he'd seen a ghost. Yes, of course,
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be right there. Bobby turned to Corra, squeezing her hand
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as if he were going into back. She nodded, because
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really that was kind of all she could do. Standing
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under the bright kitchen light, bleary eyed, wearing her least
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attractive garment and of course, bunny slippers, Corra tried her
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best to answer question after question from the young deputy
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with the notepad. He wasn't getting much. She couldn't put
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it all together. She was so tired and simultaneously wired
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that she felt nauseous, especially with the sight of the
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brownish substance smeared across her walls. And ma'am, ma'am, ma'am,
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the young deputy attempted to rope her back into reality.
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What is missing? Coora took Bobby's hand. Together they walked
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around the living room, the small dining room, the kitchen,
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and the breakfast nook. For all of the wreckage, the
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insane mess, everything of value seemed to be in its
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correct place. Cora's purse sat untouched on the bench by
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the door. Bobby's wallet and keys were right on the
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table where he always left them. The kid's iPads were
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plugged in by the hand medown desk, and Cora even
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had a necklace sitting on the kitchen counter that she'd
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been meaning to take to the jewelry repair shop for
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three months. I just I don't, I can't, but yet again,
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Cora was interrupted. Bobby Junior, with his chunky cheeks and
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Mickey Mouse pajamas, was standing at the top of the stairs.
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Cora raced up the steps to hold her baby boy.
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His face was red, right red. Buddy wasn't crying. Something
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else was going on. Mama Cora may have been utterly exhausted,
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but that didn't stop her maternal instinct from kicking into overdrive.