“It’s a pumpkin. It can’t feel a thing.”
“I still think it hurts.” She glowered at him while he finished cutting out the lid. He reminded me of my grandfather, measuring out from the stem as he carved.
On the other side of the patio, I was still jabbing around the pattern on Sam’s pumpkin, and Sam himself was standing on a swing shouting, “I hit an iceberg. The Titanic is sinking and we haven’t got enough lifeboats!”
I said, “Chewie, go save Sam.” But the dog rammed his nose into my armpit, far more interested in the possibility of pumpkin treats than in saving his kid.… Read the rest