It’s eleven o’clock at night. My sister went to sleep an hour ago, but she bursts out of her room and looks down. Then, befuddled, she looks into my room. Specifically, at my bed. Where the dog is.
“Huh,” she says, “so it wasn’t the dog.”
“Probably not,” I say. “What wasn’t?”
“There was something scratching at my door,” she tells me, dogward-bound. “I’m probably just going crazy.”
“Nah, it’s just the ghost.”
“Right.” By this point, she’s got her hands on the dog. “I’m just going to pat him to convince my brain he’s here. Not at the door.”
She does. I ask “so like, are you less or more confused now?”
“Yes,” she says with certainty. “I am more or less confused.”
