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Ensign Pillsbury: He's bread Jim!
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Panic overtakes you as you flee back through the front door, not stopping until you reach the safety of your home. Without thinking, you unlock the front door and hurry inside; the sound of the door awakens your father, who stops you as you hurry toward your room.
"What's the matter?" he asks, stifling a yawn.
"Oh, nothing. Decided not to spend the night after all."
He flips on the hall light, squints at the brightness, and raises an eyebrow. "Perhaps you should look in a mirror."
You slip into the bathroom and look in the mirror. You are covered from head to toe with dust, dirt, and cobwebs. Worse yet, your bangs and eyebrows are singed into tight curls, and your face is red from your near-incineration. Your father peers patiently over your shoulder. This is it. You quickly consider the alternatives.