Two balls on the kitchen counter, one blue, the other a strange tangerine floral, the third was missing. I’d seen it just half an hour ago, a multicoloured orb that mystified the eye. What colour was it, Joey? I searched piles of wrapping, other toys splayed across the mid-winter living room post-birthday mess, nothing. Anger furnaced my mind, guts, my body approached sweating point—but I kept it in. Why did Joey care about it so much? He was nine, it was a ball.  The father issue loomed; he would have found the ball in no time. He’s not coming Joey… Flora the terrier followed my search initiatives, her wet nose or mouth also going into every crevice I checked. I kicked her, the high whimper echoed into the anteroom where Aunt Titcia dozed into another fuzzy day of her early nineties. Joey, blanket over head, moaned, the snowy expanse of a dark winter afternoon windowed behind him. The magic of logic arrived just in time. That whimper, so strained. Puppy pink jaw open, the orb was retrieved from back-mouth. The other balls collected, I juggled all three mid-air, the doorbell finally ringing as a form of applause.