“Sherry, can you find my black socks with the extra padding!” Steve yelled from the midst of his changing room. Paneled with natural wood and filled with light, this overhang of the boathouse was rarely used for its purpose but this was one of the rare days when Steve actually changed in it. He looked out on to the water and at little Ronald beating desperately to make it to shore. A long sigh escaped him. Three years old and the child still couldn’t swim. Almost a month of lessons, three times a week, had done no good. Sometimes he didn’t even remember what he had already been taught. So in desperation Steve had taken to throwing him in the water and leaving the area. It wasn’t easy, but nothing successful ever was. Steve had learned this from his days of rigorous training in the field of kites. God forbid he should have the child take that up anytime soon. The shadow of failure loomed too close already. “Sherry, damn-it! I’m in a hurry!” The woman was a lousy maid, but he kept her on out of pity. After all, they were married. He pulled his trousers up and looked in the mirror to make sure his uniform was straight. Lately it looked like he had taken to sleeping in it. A quick glance outside revealed that the child had indeed struggled to the shore and was lying facedown in the mud. Steve smiled at the small victory as he pulled a lime off the tree in the window to give to the boy on the way out. Where were those socks? He was starting to think he would have to do everything on his own, even use the toilet. What was the world coming to? Maybe the boy would actually learn to fly a kite someday. He tried not to get his hopes up, but couldn’t help it. He was a hopeful person.