Friday morning, 8:05 AM.

The younger is lolling on the sofa playing with her Squinkies. We need to leave for school in 10 minutes.

“Can I stay home today?” she asks. “I’m feeling a bit under the weather,” she adds, casually.

I scoff, unimpressed, and shake my head.

She clutches her throat.

“Ah! Death!” she intones, before convulsing in what I understand to be death throes, replete with much writhing and gagging.

I remain unmoved.

She staggers to her feet.

“I think I’m just going to sit by the kitchen window and wait for death,” she announces.

“K,” I say.

“And I might as well have one last Pirate Booty before I die.”

“Sure, why not,” I say, staring at my phone.

A minute later, she walks back into the living room with a fistful of pirate’s booty.

“When I finish this handful I will surely perish,” she declares indistinctly, her last words muffled by the enormous quantity of pirate-themed cheese-flavored rice and corn puffs filling her mouth.