He slid the second sock onto his right foot. It fit perfectly. The two rockets were now side by side, aiming forward, a fleet of two.

“That’s wrong,” the sock grumbled.

Leo’s lower lip trembled. This was the fourth morning in a row. Yesterday, his dinosaur socks had refused to let his heel go in because they were “scared of the dark inside the sneaker.” The day before, his stripey socks had tied themselves into a knot under the bed.

Leo was four years old, which meant he was old enough to put on his own socks. At least, that’s what his mom said every morning. The problem wasn’t that Leo couldn’t do it. The problem was that Leo’s socks had opinions.

“Did they behave?” she asked.