In the warehouse, playing catch with the nerf football:

We're on fire. Boy, we've caught the ball, what? 6, maybe 7, times in a row? Gahhhhhh-ley!—NFL, here we come! I toss the ball. It spirals, drops low. It's zooming toward Miles at about mid-shin. He squats low, his baseball days gearing him for the catch.

A foreign sound pierces the air. Miles stares dumbstruck, the football hurtling his face.

I remain perfectly unaware that anything out of the ordinary has occurred. I'm used to Miles not catching footballs (maybe not as much as he is used to MY not catching footballs, but that's neither here nor there), after all.

I see his expression—a study of awe, and not a little vexation. "Hon, I uh....feel a draft."

I think we should do an exposé on the matter...perhaps "Khakis: They're not all that they seam." Or, "Khakis: The final front-tear."

Miles is deeply disturbed. I think it will be a good while before he wears pants again.