I headed over to the warehouse section to see the latest arrivals. The work had stopped for lunch. There must have been two dozen tables piled with clothes in various stages of being unwrapped and displayed. Items of clothing were stacked twenty pieces deep, and I had to flip items to the side to see what was underneath. The first pile I came to was of children’s clothes. I was searching for another table when something caught my attention. It was just the edge of a shirt, but the hem of the sleeve and the pattern—a fine pinstripe in white and forest green—attracted me. That was all I could see, just the sleeve hem and about an inch of the shirt, but something about it seemed familiar. I started getting this feeling in my stomach.
I tried to pull out the sleeve, but the weight of the other clothes did not allow that. So I rapidly flipped off the top layers. No, I don’t believe it. This shirt was identical to one that I used to own and that I had worn at Girl Scout camp, when the sleeve hems had gotten frayed. Now what was the likelihood that this was my shirt? Well, there was one way to tell. Mom always ironed a name tag into my camp clothes so I wouldn’t lose them. I jerked open the shirt and went straight to the neckband, where I found a slightly worn name tag that was frayed around the edges and clearly read “Cornelia Davis”!
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