Mavis looked at the expanse of yarn in her living room; the skeins had woven their way into the kitchen, the bathroom, the bedroom. She had not seen her cat in days.
It had started Monday; Mavis’s dealer had been selling black market worsted weight alpaca.
“High quality Peruvian.” He glanced around nervously as he handed her the bag.
She sat down that night and began knitting. At dawn Mavis was still awake, staring with bloodshot eyes at the most beautiful blanket in the world.
She needed more yarn.
“Price has gone up.” Her dealer grunted. But no price was too high; she would have sold herself on the street for it.
When a neighbor finally checked on her later that week, it was far too late. Autopsy reports would show, to the horror and shame of her family, that Mavis had died from a massive overdose of illicit textiles.
Jess
