Last night, as I was gathering leftovers from the refrigerator, Younger wandered into the room, snatching at some cash lying on the counter. “I did get some money, today,” he noted, gleefully.
I lifted an eyebrow at him. “Why did they give you money for sitting at a sale barn?”
“That,” he announced, sticking his nose into the air, “is the price for being in the presence of my winning personality.”
My husband snorted. “I think I want a refund, Younger.”
Younger clutched the green bills against his chest and cried, “No refunds.” Then, hunched over his treasure, he scampered from the room.
So, apparently, Younger has a selling price.
Just remember, no refunds.
And no returns.