Let me tell you about my last trip to the emergency room. It all started with me placing a little red pencil on the conveyor belt at my mom’s workplace, and then slamming down the green “GO” button. Then, the conveyor belt lurched into action and the pencil slowly marched down the conveyor belt, with me running beside it. When the pencil reached the bottom, which stretched into the basement, I quickly tried to grab the pencil, afraid it might break. I snatched it off the conveyor belt, but I dropped it, confused. I wondered why my hand felt exposed. I pulled my hand up towards my eye, and screamed. My hand was red, but not from the pencil. The skin had stripped off my hand and I could see flesh, with blood pooled in some places. I ran up the stairs, still screaming, just as my mom rushed into the room. When she saw my hand she freaked out and rushed to the first aid kit on the wall. She pulled out a clean, new bandage, rushed over to me, and dragged me over to the sink. She cleaned my wound and bandaged it up. Then, I blacked out. When I woke up, I was in the emergency room. A little while later the doctor came in and told us that my hand would be okay, as long as we kept it clean. As soon as the doctor left, my mind randomly flashed back to my mom’s workplace. “Whatever happened to that little red pencil?”
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