I’ve killed a bear. Just one. And it wasn’t very big. Actually, even inserting the word big into the previous sentence doesn’t seem right because it causes one to think that there was some bigness to the bear. There wasn’t. Unless, of course, you are telling your one and only bear story to your almost five-year-old just before bed. Then the bear is big.
“Hey Bud, wanna hear a bear story?” I ask before leaving his side.
“Yeah!” he says as he picks his head up off his pillow in the darkness of his room. He’ll listen to anything in order to delay bedtime, so I oblige.