“They just needed to know who was the captain,” Leo said.

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.

The sock purred. “Good.”

“Okay,” Leo whispered back. He turned the sock around and shoved his right toes into the heel. It was a lumpy, angry fit. The toe seam bunched under his arch. The rocket ships were now pointing sideways, exploding toward his ankle.

“They want the wrong feet,” Leo said.

“Did they behave?” she asked.

Leo slid the first sock onto his left foot. The heel cup found its home. The toes spread out like five little astronauts. The rocket ships pointed straight toward his toenails, ready for takeoff.

“That’s wrong,” the sock grumbled.