"What CAN we do?" asked Bryan pessimistically.
"Let's call a doctor," said Brett. Mr. DeSoto thought that
was the most sensible thing anyone had said yet, but
Don dismissed it.
"What doctor could do anything about THIS? Dad would
just end up dissected in some lab somewhere. We
should wait and see if this wears off."
"What the hell makes you think it's going to wear off?"
Bryan demanded.
"How the fuck should I know? This doesn't exactly
happen every day! But what choice do we have? Maybe
if it doesn't wear off by tomorrow, we can think of calling
someone."
"But that means I have to spend all night like . . . this,"
Mr. DeSoto said, hating how vulnerable and helpless
he sounded. Luckily none of his giant sons heard him.
"Is something burning?" Don was saying.
"Oh shit! The frozen dinners!" Bryan flew across the
room and threw open the oven, which leaked black
smoke. In the flurry of activity, everyone forgot tiny Mr.
DeSoto on the table. "They're OK," said Bryan
uncertainly, eyeing the charred mass.
"Did you make me one?" asked Don.
"Uh, no. But you can have Dad's. I guess he can just . . .
uh . . . share."
The three brothers grimly prepared for dinner, setting
the table and scraping the blackened dinners onto
plates. Brett put out a small plate for Mr. DeSoto, but no
other utensils would work with such a small man who
was smaller than the smallest fork they had. Mr.
DeSoto began crying tears of humiliation and rage,
which everyone noticed but pretended not to. Bryan
doled some food out to his minature father and they all
sat back to eat in silence and stare at him.