“Very mature, Dad!” Dragon Little came out of the cabin, complaining about the way Dragon Father woke her up by singing very badly. She was holding her toothbrush and toothpaste.

“I’m sorry,” Dragon Father came out immediately after her. “Is this going to be a thing, now?”

“What thing?”

“This ‘very matuuuuure, Daaaaad’ thing you’re doing? It’s like the fifth or sixth time you told me that in about two weeks. Are you hanging out with teenagers on the street or something? Did you pick this up from television? Are you fifteen?” All these three statements of course were impossible for Dragon Little: There were no teenagers in his dream, no streets, no television, and she was not yet and likely would never survive to fifteen.

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