Jedediah Smith

That evening as always, my wife and I were at home reading on the couch.

According to this, she said, more children disappear every year.

Looking up from my newspaper, I asked, How can that be when on our block children are running everywhere? I picked six out of the orange tree this morning.

Getting up, I headed for the kitchen to make a sandwich.

Could you fix me a drink while you’re up?

The usual?

Naturally, she said, and I walked straight through the kitchen, out the door, and into the house next door. I picked up the book I had left in my chair and sat down.

According to this, I said to my wife who sat in the other chair, the oceans are still rising.

How can that be, my wife asked, when you just read me a story about how we’re running out of water?

Getting up, she headed for the kitchen.

Could you fix me a drink while you’re up?

The usual?

Naturally, I said.

When she handed me my drink, I looked up and asked, did you just hear the paperboy?

There are no more paperboys, she said, just screaming children.

I got up and headed out the front door to see. Walking across the lawn, I entered the house next door through the kitchen and took the drink to my wife.

Sorry to put you to so much trouble.

No trouble, I said, picking up my newspaper and sitting back on the couch.

According to this, I said to my wife, they are running out of paper and will stop printing these soon.

I know, she said. They stopped months ago.

I realized I was not holding a newspaper but a cup of cocoa. Oh yes, I said, now I remember.

I headed upstairs to a bedroom. Inside thirty or forty children were jumping around, screaming and fighting with pillows, and I had to shout to be heard, Who ordered the cocoa?