Chapter Two — The Great Washing Machine Debacle
It started at the spring carnival.
Kara had hugged Buttons tight through cotton candy clouds, soda spills, and one heroic leap into a mud puddle that splashed halfway up her knees. The air had smelled like popcorn and pavement. Laughter bounced off the Ferris wheel spokes. Balloons bobbed like dreams just out of reach.
Buttons came with her through it all, his threadbare paw tucked tight in her grip, one ear sticky with grape slushie.
When Mom saw the mess, she gasped—a sharp inhale that sounded like it got stuck in her throat.
Dad, on the other hand, burst into laughter.
“He’s strong enough for the gentle cycle!” he declared, hoisting Buttons with two fingers like a skydiver preparing for launch. “He’s a tough little guy.”
Mom narrowed her eyes, arms crossing over her jacket. “He’s not an astronaut, Michael. Wash him by hand.”
Dad wiggled his eyebrows. “This is his training mission.”
❖ ❖ ❖
The spin cycle was not kind.
Kara sat cross-legged on the laundry room floor, her knees pressed to the cold tile, watching him tumble in bubbles. At first, it was funny. Buttons flipped and flopped in the porthole window like a soggy superhero caught in a storm. She giggled behind her hands.
Then—
WHAM.
A snapping, ripping sound like Velcro being torn from the sky.
“Dad!” she shouted, her voice cracking halfway up the wall.
To his credit, Dad dove in like a real hero, yanking open the washer mid-spin. Buttons flew out like a half-drowned mouse, dripping foam, his ear curled sideways.
But his left eye was gone.
Just… gone.
Kara stared, breath stuck behind her ribs. A dark, frayed hole remained where the button had been.
They tried to find it—dug through suds and lint and the shadowy corners of the drum—but the eye was lost to the washing machine forever.
❖ ❖ ❖
The living room was quiet, hushed like a bedtime secret. The only sound was the tick of the old wall clock and the soft, steady pull of thread through cloth.
Mom sat beneath the lamplight, her sewing basket open beside her. Gold light spilled over her lap and over Buttons, cradled in her hands like something precious and fragile. Her tongue peeked from the corner of her mouth the way it always did when she was fully focused. Her fingers moved slowly. Carefully. Tenderly.
Kara sat next to her, knees drawn up, clutching her elbows. Her throat felt too tight for words.
She watched every movement of the needle. In. Pull. Knot. Again.