Fishing a chamomile tea bag from the holder, I drop it into my favorite mug—the one I found perched on top of my mailbox a few months ago.I never figured out who it belonged to, but it was far too cute to toss, so I brought it inside, scrubbed it clean, and kept it safe.I told myself I was performing a public service—rehoming a mug in need.It’s white with a red-and-white mushroom cap for a lid, and stamped across the front in cheerful lettering are the words “I’m a fungi.”
The kettle begins to whistle, a sharp, impatient sound cutting through the quiet kitchen.I turn off the heat and pour the water slowly, steam rising in soft, curling ribbons.The scent of chamomile blooms almost instantly—warm, floral, faintly sweet—wrapping around me like a hug.I place the mushroom-shaped lid on top, trapping the heat inside as the tea steeps, the mug warming my palms the moment I lift it.
Placing the cup on my designated snack tray, I grab a bag of baking chocolate chips and Chex Mix and add them to the tray before making my way to my couch.After confirming everything is nestled in place on the couch, I collapse back into it and turn on my favorite trashy reality show,Love Is Blind.Bring on the drama!
I’m so engrossed in the show that I lose all sense of time—until my cramps start screaming.I reach for the nearly empty bottle of ibuprofen and notice a missed notification on my phone.
My Target order has been delivered.Perfect timing.My uterus is demanding a heating pad.Those disposable ones were not cutting it.
Bless whoever invented delivery apps.I would marry them.Unless they’re already married, then I would name my firstborn after them.I shuffle to the front door, tightening my robe before opening it to the bite of frigid January air.This is one of the coldest winters we’ve had in years, and I’m endlessly grateful for whoever braved this weather to shop for me.I’d much rather be warm inside than out there facing the cold.
I freeze when I look down at my doorstep.
Sitting ontop of my delivery bags is a plush stuffed animal.Specifically—a brown sloth.I pick it up slowly, fingers sinking into its soft weight, staring into its wide, gentle eyes.Without thinking, I hug it tight against my chest.Something warm melts in my ribs at the small, unexpected kindness.Like the Grinch, I can practically feel my heart grow three sizes.
I glance around the porch and down the quiet street, half-expecting the delivery driver to still be there—even though the order was dropped off two hours ago.Digging through my robe pocket, I try to find my phone.Gosh—darn it.I swear it was right there.The cold air creeps into the house, and I hurry to scoop up the bags and carry them into the kitchen.Once everything is safely inside, I grab the sloth and head back to the couch, still searching.
I find my phone tucked between the cushions.Figures.
Snuggling into the couch with my new bestie, I unlock my phone, navigate to the app, and my jaw nearly drops when I see his name:Dave.My oat-milk savior—and now my sloth-bearer.
After contemplating for less than a minute, I add a message—along with a tip.
Sara
Thank you for the sloth.I shall name him Sir Sloths-A-Lot.Seriously.He made my night!
I hit send, my heart racing so hard I can hear it in my ears.I don’t know why I’m this nervous over a delivery guy seeing my message… but I hope he does.And a small part of me hopes he’ll reply.
4
DAVE
The smell of musk and sweat assaults my senses.
“Alright, we can do this!Three-peat on three,” Ravi says, putting his hand in the middle of the group.
“One… two… three-peat!”We cheer before breaking apart and taking our positions.
Three years ago, after a random late-night study session, Ravi saw a sign for the school gym Dodgeball tournament, and he convinced us to sign up.Now, Ravi, Eric, Kyle, Chad, and I have an undefeated record, and this year marks our final year here.We are determined to make it count and leave a lasting legacy in this tournament.
The noise from the opposing team is loud; they’re our biggest rivals… The Dental Dudes.Yeah, not the most creative bunch but who’s to judge, we named ourselves, The Breathing Bunch.
The sharp whistle from the referee signals the final game of the tournament.It’s now or never.I lunge for the line of dodgeballs, managing to snag two before retreating.I toss one towards Kyle, our center.For five guys bonded over the trauma of graduate school, we work as a well-oiled team.Kyle is tall and well-built, with a killer throw.An obvious choice to be our center.Ravi and Eric are smaller in stature but have sharp eyes, and seamlessly transition into our corner positions, catching incoming balls and reviving those who are out.Chad and I fit perfectly in the middle, serving as the runners, the first to grab the balls and ensuring the rear is strong.
Fifteen minutes later, we secure the win.
“YES!I knew we could do it!”Ravi pumps his fist in the air.Out of all of us, he’s always the most animated.He takes this tournament very seriously.I tried to sit this year out, but he sent me a PowerPoint explaining why the team needed me and why I needed them.It was quite convincing, especially considering I’m standing here holding this plastic participation trophy.
“Never doubted us,” Kyle chimes in from behind me.
“Let’s hit the sauna,” Chad announces, as he makes his way toward the locker room.
“I’d rather take an ice bath,” I counter, feeling my joints start to stiffen.
“And maybe a few beers,” Eric interjects.
Ravi wraps his arm around my neck.“That’s a great plan.You in, Dave?”
