"Dad!" Don said in a shocked voice. "How the hell did he get so small?"
Don turned to his younger brothers, Bryan and Brett.
"I don't know," Bryan said, shrugging his shoulders.
"I didn't do it," Brett chimed in, eager to clear his name since in this family, the youngest member usually got the blame when something went wrong.
Don smacked the back of Brett's head. "I know you didn't do it, dumbass!" Don said. "When did this happen?"
"Only a few moments ago," Bryan said.
At the same time, Mr. DeSoto had to endure the indignity of his son's discussing his dilemma as if his prescence in the room in the shadow of their giant feet was
irrelevant.
"Hey, guys!" He shouted up at his sons. "I can still hear. I can still speak. I do have a say in this."
"Wait!" Don said, holding up a hand to silence his brothers. "I think Dad is trying to say something."
Mr. DeSoto swallowed his humiliation. "I just said that I'm still in the room, guys. Don't talk about me. Talk to me."
"Sure," Don said, already taking charge. "Sorry, dad. Hey, this might make it easier."
Before his father agreed, Don wrapped a big fist around the six-inch-tall man. Taken by surprise, he squirmed in his son's huge grasp until Don released him on the
kitchen tabletop.
"That's better," Don said.
All three sons took seats at the table and stared at their shrunken father.
"What are we going to do?" Don said.