Her mother handed her a napkin.
Not one of mine.
A clean one.
Then came the shout.
“WHO DID THIS?!”
Several passengers turned around.
I slowly looked over my shoulder.
Captain Compost was standing in the aisle, his face bright red.
Both socks were on his feet.
As he’d pulled the socks on, the two clear pouches had slipped upward.
The white notes inside now stuck out above his ankles like luggage tags.
He pulled the first one free.
Then the second.
He stared at them.
“What kind of sick joke is this?”
I blinked.
“Is something wrong?”
He took the napkins out of the pouches and waved them.
“Somebody put these in my socks!”
The teenager made another strangled noise.
I tilted my head.
“Oh. I wondered when you’d collect those.”
His mouth fell open.
Then he thrust the first napkin toward me.
“Did you write this?”
