On the way home from the doctor’s office
Fiona looked out the car window at a dirt lot filled with large earth movers and construction equipment. She asked in an aghast tone, “What are they doing?”
I flicked a glance sideways, but kept my focus on the busy traffic, “I dunno, building something, I guess. What do you think they’re building?”
“Zombie Houses,” she answered after a short pause, completely deadpan.
“Zombie houses?” I choke out.
“Yeah. For Zombies to sleep in,” she says, unaware that she is strangling me with laughter.
“And eat stuff,” she adds.
I gather my breath as I picture the construction workers building zombie homes and feel the need to press my luck, “What do Zombies eat?”
“Dirty Stuff. Like yucky, dirty bananas,” she says, as though anyone should know this stuff, “And dirty chocolate. And dirty sugar.”
“Oh.” I say, at a loss.
She continues, “And dirty Pants. And dirty houses.”
There is a long pause while I process this information.
“Zombies eat dirty houses?” I ask.
“Yeah,” she answers completely seriously, “But it takes a really long time.”