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Her nursery ceiling occasionally transformed into a glittering night sky.

And once, she dreamed of a unicorn so vividly that a very confused white horse appeared in our garden.

Then came this morning.

“Daddy?”

I glance down at her.

“Yes, princess?”

“Can we keep the dragon?”

I close my eyes.

Ah.

The dragon.

Our golden retriever, Apollo, has spent the last six hours as a miniature fire-breathing creature with scales, wings, and a deeply offended expression.

Temporarily.

Probably.

“Sweetheart, Apollo is a dog.”

She frowns.

“Dragon dog.”

“An interesting distinction.”

“He likes flying.”

“He fell off the couch.”

“He was learning.”

Calla folds her arms.

“Morpheus.”

I look up.

“Yes, wife?”

“Please tell me you can turn our dog back.”

“Naturally.”

“Today?”

I hesitate.

Her eyes narrow.

“Morpheus.”