"Twisted Sheets"

The room divider knows everything. It just won’t tell.

The morning sun pours through the bedroom window, painting everything gold, including you — a person who has not yet had coffee and is therefore unprepared for moral dilemmas. You peel back the twisted sheets from the night before and your hand hits something crisp. Not a note. Not a phone. Not even a sock.

Cash.

Actual cash. Wedged between the pillowcase and the mattress like the Tooth Fairy got sloppy.

You blink. You stare. You count. Three hundred dollars in Benjamins. Your heart thumps because this is not the kind of money that just appears unless you’re in a movie or a very different profession — and you are absolutely, definitively not a sex worker, despite what these sheets are trying to imply.

The scent of cologne still lingers, along with the faint echo of midnight laughter, but the money feels foreign, like it wandered into the wrong apartment and is now embarrassed about it.

So now what? Do you keep it? Pretend the universe tipped you for good behavior? Tuck it in a drawer and let future‑you deal with the ethics?

But honesty taps you on the shoulder, clearing its throat like a disappointed aunt. You know what you have to do.

You reach out to the person who stayed the night. The conversation is awkward in that very specific way where you’re trying to return money that makes you look like you might have earned it horizontally. Your cheeks burn. Their eyes widen. Relief floods the room.

The money goes back to its rightful owner. The sheets get washed. The world rights itself.

And you — lighter now, forgiven by the sun and the spring air — walk away with a lesson: sometimes doing the right thing costs nothing, except maybe a good story and a blush that lasts until the next Whiskey River run.

The Logical Song