I look down at the bedraggled cluster of neon yellow feathers that Gib so blithely calls a duck suit. Even as I watch, a serrated yellow plastic oval detaches itself from the main mass and floats to the floor.

“Come on, Gib. The duck suit sucks: look, it’s molting!” I shake the suit slightly. Tiny bits of yellow detach themselves and hang in the air like dust motes in a sunbeam.

Gib is unimpressed. He looks at his watch and then starts to walk away without bothering to make eye contact. “One minute. You. Duck suit. Or Mildred gets it.”

I am left holding the pathetic excuse for a duck suit. This is not good. There is no way I am ever going to impress Dorothy if all I ever get to wear is the duck suit. But could I really let Mildred get it?

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