Tell me about the fangs,” my son says. I goof around, making rabbit fangs with my index fingers while thumping my hind leg like a hare. “That’s not scary,” he says with relief. I read on. “Mom how can Harold be telling this story, dogs can’t talk?” An introduction to the devices of fiction, is what I want to say, but I say instead, “Cool, hunh?” Fiction can do anything.
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