"Who farted?" K.K. stomps into the room.
Now I'm not about to wave my hand in the air and draw her attention. Nope. No way. K.K. is a pitbull and I am a wimp. This is not a combination that works in my favor.
She stops in the middle of the room, plants her hands on her hips and stares at each one of us in turn. Nostrils working, she sniffs the air. Sweat trickles down my spine. "Who farted?" She roars.
When no one answers, she motions for us to rise. "Fine, get up. I can tell who did it by smell."
We stay put.
She glowers and then moves behind her younger sister who promptly sits and foils her plans. This is all the proof K.K. needs. "It's you." She says, certain her announcement is humiliating enough to be newsworthy.
Her sister ignores her, I breath a sigh of relief, and K.K. stomps off yelling for her brother. "Goonie bird. I know you're out there Goonie Bird."