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“Good point,” he said, smiling at her, and she reminded herself that most of the time, this was how he was. Most of the time, just like before, when he looked at her, she knew he thought she was clever, creatively fun.
Their daughter spotted a little coven of striped-socked, pointy-hatted scarecrow witches positioned around a fake fire, fog pumping at their feet.
“Look! Witches like me.”
“Oh yeah,” her husband said. “That’s clearly a cool crew there. You know them?”
She’d given a snorting laugh, teased, “Why would you think all witches know each other?”
“Daddy, are witches real?” their daughter asked.
“No, but people used to think they were.”
“Are bats real?” their son chimed in.
“Yes.”
“Vampire bats?”
“Yes. They don’t live around here, though. And they drink animal blood, not people blood.”
“Gross!”
“Yup.”
“And unicorns aren’t real, but narwhals are real.”
“That’s right.”
“And Santa’s real?”
“Mmmm,” her husband hummed noncommittally.
“But ghosts aren’t real.”
“Correct.”
“Are dragons real?”
“No, dragons aren’t real.”
“But dinosaurs are real!”
“They were real.”
“And they left their bones.”
“Yes.”
“But there are no dragon bones.”
“That’s right.”
The children thought about this.
“It’s confusing,” their daughter said.
“Yeah, it is,” her husband agreed. “I always thought maybe a long time ago people found dinosaur bones and invented dragons to explain them.”
