Six Pairs of Thick Gray Socks Saved My White House on Elm Street

my shins. He wrote everything down in his precise, neat script, his fountain pen scratching against the yellow pad.

When he finished, he photocopied the pages and slid them into a clean manila envelope. He handed it to me with a small, encouraging nod.

“Your circulation is ninety percent better than it was two months ago, Martha,” he continue reading …