Eight year old Tommy stuck his hand beneath the surface of the muck in the shallow pond. He ran the cool, squishy mud between his chubby fingers, delighted with its consistency, smoothness, even the lovely (for an eight year old) color of dirt.
Suddenly, he felt something hard amidst his hand full of mud. He clenched his fist tightly and brought the mud to the surface. Running his hand through the mud, sifting out the dirt, his eyes opened wide.
“This looks like the molar my brother Joe lost last week.” He thought.
According to an old paper tucked in Uncle dale’s dresser, it wasn’t Joe’s. Or where the rest of the body was.