Gene said everything always works out in the end. I wondered what was this elusive end and where was it hiding.
Come out, come out, wherever you are.
"You think about it." He shifted in his office chair, settling into the squeak of it, with that all-is-right-with-the-world expression I've come to expect on his face. "Doesn't it usually all work out in the end?"
A few days later I dropped a jar of apple sauce smashing it into a million microscopic pieces, one of which I found by stepping on it and shoving it into my foot. Hours of limping later, the glass worked out in the end.
He was on to something.