Down at the range, one day, with my daughter. Got, oh, 8 or 9 pistols with us, all in their own little hard cases. Fetched 'em all in in a big duffel bag. The range has got two or three of them big, 8-foot long folding tables like they used to have in school lunchrooms. My stuff is all piled on one of 'em - guns, boxes, ammo, markers, targets, etc.
We finish up and leave. When I get home, light is blinking on my answering machine. It's Mark, down at the range. "Uuhh, Ron, Chris said his gun is missing, and you were the only other one on the range."
What?? If I WAS gonna steal a gun, it dang sure wouldn't be no Charles Daly copy of a 1911. But, when I unload the duffel bag, there's a black plastic hard case marked "Charles Daly". Apparently it was on the same table, and my daughter thought it was one of mine.
I called back and said that if he was in desperate need of it tonight, I'd fetch it back, but otherwise I'd bring it in tomorrow. Chris said that'd be fine. Long as he knew where it was.
Oops.