David: “Where’s your truck?”
“Too big for your driveway. We’ll walk it up.”
Hours later David found wife Vicky hiding in the kitchen: “This is terrible. Poor boys.”
Wet, bent figures, boxes and furniture strapped on backs, struggled upward. She imagined shell encased crabs, inching across a beach.
That night, snug, abed in her new digs, surrounded by damp boxes, Vicky asked:
“What do you think the moving men are doing?”
“Maybe dreaming of a day at the shore.”
“I bet they don’t see any hermit crabs.”