Think Harry, I told myself, tamping down on my hysteria. Thinkthinkthinkthinkthink. Don’t do this. Don’t alarm her.
But I looked down at the lump in the blankets, and felt the blood drain from my face.
“Maggie,” I said, scrubbing a hand over my face as I stared slightly away from Maggie’s head and at a lamp near the door, avoiding the possibility that I might Soul Gaze my daughter, “I love you like Molly loves gore movies and Mouse loves drooling. Now go find Aunty Charity. Daddy needs to... look for, uh... bedbugs. I don’t want you to get bitten, lose a pint of blood and turn into a zombie, ‘kay? Hop Scotch kiddo, make it so!”
I oughta be in pictures.
I waved my arm straight ahead like Captain Kirk, then smiled at her as she stared at me for a moment, then down at her new Splattercon little girls size tee before going out the door and shutting it quietly behind her.
As I listened, I made a mental note to myself: Must remember to kill Molly later for exposing my daughter to, you know, all the cool stuff. Like dark tee shirts and tabasco popcorn.