My parents are predators. They have fangs, but George doesn’t know about the fangs because I’ve never told him. The real reason I want to go to my parents’ house is to get my bicycle which is red with streamers and a banana seat. There’s a short gravel road and then we’re there, before the triangle house. A barn house. “Barn house,” I say to George. “They have sheep.” “They don’t have sheep.” “They might have sheep.” George rings the doorbell. My mother in her corduroy jumper, stooping to pet a fat tabby cat, its fur
