If you show up on my front door in the middle of a blizzard, wearing nothing but a floppy wool cap and carrying a broken flute,I won't be especially surprised. So you've decided that you are the reincarnation of John Mosby? Whatever.
I'll just invite you in and and give you blankets and coffee.
The vowels and other sounds strike me in the head ,but don't make it inside my ears. I'm busy.
I'm looking through a pile of useless scrap paper for your social worker's phone number. I'm wishing someone would invent speed dial and touch-tone phones. I'm trying not to wake up Kathy, she hates it when you do this. I'm trying to remember how to treat frostbite.
I call your social worker. It's three A.M. and I've got a half-frozen Confederate officer on my couch and he's not just whistling Dixie. He's whistling Dixie through a broken flute.
He tells me to check your fingers and toes. OK , red and flushed. We don't need an ambulance, but he's on the way over to pick you up.
Kathy wakes up and starts yelling at me.
You toss off your blankets and start dancing around the room.
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