The clock struck nine.
“It’s time,” the old man whispered.
“My feet! I can’t! The germs!” the little girl cried.
He scooped her off the couch anyway and slung her across his back. He sprinted across the living room, leaping over the leather ottoman.
He took the stairs two at a time, saw her tiny bare feet swing, felt her grip tighten around his neck.
“Okay back there?”
She said nothing. He swore he heard a giggle.
They reached her bedroom and he tossed his granddaughter onto her bed.
“Again!” she squealed.
Grandpa grinned. Of course, he couldn’t say no.
The Weekday One Hundred 