One Reese

Best Rock could tell it was slightly past 7 a.m., Sunday morning. It looked like dawn in his house. His cat Jo wanted out. Something was starting to register somewhere in his mind. He had eaten one Mounds bar. A Halloween-sized Mounds bar. Or maybe two. Yes, it looked like two. There were two empty Mounds wrappers on his bedroom floor.
He figured he was exactly one Reese's Cup away from glycemic equilibrium. That's all he needed, so the search began.
He was not desperate. His balance was intact and he was somewhat reasonable. He looked for the orange wrapper of a Reese anywhere he could remember having seen one: on his desk, his dressers, the kitchen table, the coffee table, the refrigerator, in several drawers, his bathroom closet, and, finally, his laptop computer bag. There was one there, he felt sure. At least one.
Jo stood by the front door and begged to go out. Rock remembered that his other cat Pam had been outside all night. He opened the front door. Pam came in. Jo left.
Back in the bag, he found the Reese, but when he opened it there was nothing inside but bone-dry chocolate and peanut butter crumbles and dust, which surprised him. But he was no longer worried. Years of experience told him everything was fine. The Mounds worked. Patience had won out, and it was time to make a pot of coffee.