Must be on the table where I threw my jacket. Maybe in the cafeteria. How about the print shop? In the parking lot? Maybe you dropped them when we were unloading the car. How about by the mailboxes? In the equipment room? In the backpack? What about the boxes you carried in from the car? In the paint room? Maybe someone turned them in to the HS office. No one's there. Dave, did you see some keys? No. Maybe I never had them here. Maybe they're still in the door at home. Drive home. NO KEYS! Back to school, do it all over again.
Finally, after two hours. We gave up. Someone will find them and turn them in. We'll get them back in the morning. That's the only way we could go to sleep. First thing this morning, call all the offices. No one found keys. OK. Let's stop at school before we leave and check one more time. You were struggling with those boxes of gear, remember? Maybe the keys are in the boots. Check the storeroom, rattle every boot, shake out the rain pants, lift the top box, do it again. Then, turn the box. KEYS! Embedded in the box. Must be when you gripped the box with the keys in your hand, they stuck. Such immense relief! We left a little late, but much happier.
Till noon. Waves of nausea. Flank pain. Urgency. Frequent bathroom stops. Familiar tugging. Swearing. Oh, we know this old friend. KIDNEY STONE NUMBER 7! Or maybe eight. We've lost track. It couldn't be while we were home. It had to be on the road, on a long awaited vacation. No matter. It's under control and he'll wash it out with fluids, I hope. If the pain is too bad, the route to the hospital is loaded on my phone.
Lunch time pizza in a little shop in Tyrone, PA.
Courtesy of TripAdviser.com
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