“That’s how you know it’s a she-blob.”

“Right. Of course. I should have realized.”

“I gave you a cool car, too. A Camaro. You can’t tell because it’s pencil but it’s candy apple red in my head.”

“Badass. You know, this is technically my first-ever portrait.”

“I’ll send you the original! You can frame it and put it up on the wall!”

“You angling for my address?”

“Huh? Oh. Right. Never mind. You know, if you told me who you are, we could just be friends already and it wouldn’t be weird for me to mail you this picture.”

“I’m pretty sure it would always be weird for you to mail me a portrait you drew of me as a blob driving a Camaro into the sky.”

“Touché.”

“I’m actually starting to get a little sleepy without the baking show. It’s a miracle.”

“Wait! I forgot I was supposed to be getting ready for bed. I’m way behind. I haven’t even brushed my teeth yet. Wait!”

“Don’t panic, I’m not going anywhere.”

“I was hoping you’d say that. Did you brush your teeth yet? I didn’t hear you.”

“I did before we got on the line.”

“And pajamas?”

“Are you really asking me what I’m wearing right now?”

“I mean . . . yes. But, like, in a non-creepy way?”

“Is there a non-creepy way to ask someone what they’re wearing over the phone?”

“Hmmm. Let me try. How about: ‘Hey, girl, tell me about your flannel PJ pants.’”

“That is officially the worst thing I’ve ever heard in my life. Boooooooo.”

“Okay, then, you try!”

“I don’t have to try. I can already guess what you wear for pajamas.”

“What? How?”

“Your personality makes it super obvious. You clearly wear matching plaid pajama sets with one of those button-up shirts with the floppy collar. You know, Christmas morning pajamas. Oh! And a long skinny cap with a ball on the end. With your slippers lined up perfectly beside the bed. And a glass of warm milk on the bedside table.”

“Wow. So, basically you think of me as a total square.”

“You’re a good little boy, Eliot. Face it.”

“No! I refuse! You’re calling me a loser in so many words. I’m not a good little boy! I’m an M-A-N. My pajamas are, you know, made of steel wool. I eat chicken off the bone and throw the bones into the roaring campfire I stoke throughout the night. I sleep with a machete under my pillow.”

“Of course. How could I have ever confused you for a sweet little softboy cinnamon roll? I’m sorry, that’s my mistake.”

“If you keep making that face, someday it’s going to stick that way.”

“How do you know what face I’m making?”