. . .

“Fine,” says Hans, grimly. He goes. He farms delicious fruits, grimly. He makes some jam. The little wooden boy sneaks out and watches, even though Hans glares at him now and then as he cooks.

Hans jars the jam, grimly. He puts the jam in the pantry, grimly.

“There,” he says. “Are you happy now?”

The little wooden boy is just wooden. It doesn’t say anything. Boys who are made out of wood can’t actually talk.

Hans was probably imagining the whole encounter! That’s what a reasonable person would think.

<< . . .

. . . >>