"Stop, you vile dragon!"

    Kyle locked his gaze on the towering man, who was dressed in dark chain mail like a ghost. He appeared to be some sort of knight, like a toy box action figure brought to life. But why was he so enraged? Is it possible that he's yelling at me?

    In his right hand, the knight swung a sword. Its dazzling blade shone in the sunlight, and his chain mail jingled all over his body, mimicking his quick, deft movements. He shouted a challenge with a wave of his shield. "I have no fear of you, monster, or your infernal fire! Come fight with us, and we'll see who the Creator will defend!"

    Kyle opened his mouth to respond, but he was unable to speak. Acid gushed up from his hot gut, and his throat burnt like a burning sidewalk. He belched a plume of hot, steamy gases, searing his tongue and scorching his lips, with a convulsive shiver. A blazing river of fire exploded, through his gaping jaws a split second later, hurting toward the knight.

    The warrior hid his body beneath his shield's protective armour and yanked his shield up. The engulfing blaze engulfed the shield's edges, ripping the blade from his grip and devouring his sleeve. The knight waved his burning arm and shook his palm. "You are cursed, lizard!"

    Kyle cupped his hand over his lips and sucked cool air between his fingers to relieve the pain in his swollen tongue. What exactly is going on? Is it possible that the fire started by me? Is he convinced I'm the dragon? Kyle examined his hands. They had eight fingers and two thumbs, and no scales or claws. But something wasn't quite right. On his right index finger, a ring glistened. It appeared to be...familiar in some way.

    A bleeding glowing eye, the prophetic eye of a mysterious old man, a deep cauldron of swirling scarlet, peered at him from the middle of the ring. Kyle's mind swam in a dizzying whirlpool as the cyclonic vision drew him closer and closer. Everything around him was mirrored in the stone, including his troubled expression. Kyle's appearance changed as the red glow of the eye grew brighter. His ears were longer and more pointed, while his mouth became wider and more toothy. The transition was completed in a matter of seconds. He exclaimed, "I am a dragon!"

    From behind the shield, the knight reappeared, his exposed arm held away from his body. His sleeve was charred to a crisp. Like the rising smoke of a cattle brand, a furious reddish brown welt on his forearm poured curling strings of smoke.

    He yelled, "Of course you're a dragon! Do you think I'm a knucklehead?" He drew his sword once again. The knight tightened his jaw with increased strength as it cast a laser-like beam through its point, shooting high into the heavens. "I still have no fear of you, neither your hellfire nor your demon wings!"

    Wings? Did he just said 'wings'? Kyle swung his head back and forth. Wings! He experimented with fluttering them. They were successful! He pushed harder on the flaps, and he felt his body lift off the ground. The distance is ten feet. The distance is twenty feet. He saw the diminutive knight wave his sword, but he couldn't hear what he was saying; as he squeaked like an outraged mouse, and his words dispersed in the wind, generating a ringing sound that sounded more like an alarm clock than a roaring knight. It gradually went away, like the sound of a sleepy player's tambourine.

    Kyle ascended higher and higher until the light faded and he was left floating through a black canopy of serenity. His wings fluttered against emptiness, finding no air to catch to keep his body afloat as the air thinned to a biting cold vacuum. They folded and shriveled to the size of butterfly wings without warning. Kyle sank into the vacuum like a sock full of marbles, feeling like an airborne penguin, frozen and flightless. He flailed his arms in an attempt to grab anything, anything to stop himself from falling. He tried to yell, but his voice was drowned out by the empty space. Is there anyone who can help him. He'd crash onto tress or rocks below at any moment, breaking every bone in his body.

    He drew his eyes shut. He was tumbling, tumbling, tumbling...

    Kyle leapt to his feet and sat down. His pupils dilated as he tried to make sense of the low light. He panted, his tongue protruding like that of a thirsty dog. Instead of the dreadful, chilly sensation of falling, he felt softness beneath his feet and warmth across his legs. With trembling fingers, he sucked his tongue back in and groped through the sheets. He spewed out words of relief with heavy gasps. "I've gone to bed! It had all been a dream!"

    He slapped his palms together and brushed them against his sweat-soaked cheeks. There are no scales! He craned his neck to see his back, and he reached out with his hands, but his tossing and turning had twisted his PJ top enough to limit his movement. He leapt to his feet and tiptoed toward the light switch, avoiding his half-finished pencil sketches, which appeared like small wrinkled ghosts in the dawn's hazy brightness. He slapped the wall with an upward sweet. Missed! He slapped once more. Oh, the light!

    Kyle clenched his eyes shut and looked up at the two bulbs on the ceiling chandelier. He moved through his art-strewn room with a succession of one-footed hops and careful steps, almost scared to look in the mirror when he turned his back to his reflection. He let out a long sigh of relief. There will be no wings! A wrinkled and moist sweaty PJ top clung to his shoulders, yet it lay flat on his otherwise exposed flesh. He smacked his heated, dry lips as he remembered his burning breath from the dream. I feel like I fried and ate that knight for breakfast.

    He shuffled down the hall toward the bathroom, his school clothes tucked under his arm, wondering about the dream. It was quickly dissipating, like fog being swept away by the bright morning sun. Was it a knight, perhaps? I can't recall. Was it true that I was a dragon?

    He turned on the light and peered around the bathroom counter while still smacking his lips. There's the mouthwash, I see. He snatched up the plastic bottle and flipped it over to read the inscription on the side. "It gives you a fresh, clean, and cool breath!" It works for the guys on TV, at least. Kyle gargled and swished a few times, but his mouth still felt like it was full of used charcoal. What was the name of the commercial's song? Oh, sure. "Are you sick of your dog's old breath? Clean it up with Super Fresh!" Doggie breath would have been preferable at this point.

    Kyle slapped the plastic bottle on the counter and grimaced at his reflection. Nothing is going to help.

    He leaned into the mirror, one palm on the sink, feeling his chin for any telltale indications of sprouting whiskers. Today is not one of those days. However, the zits were under control, which was a positive thing. He checked the hair on his arms as he straightened his body. Even though there was no hint of red in the company of brown follicles on his head, a flattened, ragged mat of unruly strands that needed a dose of discipline, it seemed thicker and more reddish than before. His thick, short nap sprang straight up and then wilted to one side as he brushed his hair with a rapid sweep of his fingers.

    He moved forward to examine his reflection more closely till he could see the individual pores in his skin. He exhaled on his image with his mouth open wide, straining his eyes to see any consequences. The mirror did not become fogged. It's the third day in a row!

    He took a step back and gently blew on his knuckles. "Ouch!" He shook his fingers and sprayed cool water on it. My own breath had scalded me! Under the water's spray, a red blister developed. Wow! This is the worst case of terrible breath I've ever had!

    Was it finally time to inform his parents about the situation? Would they force him to wear a surgical mask in order to protect everyone? He's already been dubbed "Dragon Breath" by some of the students at school. He didn't want to be called "Lizard Lips" or anything like that.

    Maybe it was a fungus, some strange life form that settled in his cheeks to start a new empire. It seemed like he was licking glazed pottery, a series of slick ridges that didn't register his tongue's caress, when he ran his tongue along the roof of his mouth. Saliva-feeding aliens? Stranger things have occurred, I suppose. I'm sorry, but I don't recall when.

    "Kyle!" Kyle could hear his mother calling from the basement. "Please hurry! You still have breakfast to eat before the bus arrives!"

    Kyle sighed and began putting on his clothes, beginning with his favourite off-white slacks with big pockets on the lower legs. Two pens and a mechanical pencil were still clipped to the aperture of the right-hand pocket. He hurriedly put on a shirt and tied his shoes before heading for the stairwell, pausing for a moment to pat Salem. Kyle's deep strokes caused the long-haired cat to yawn and arch his back. "I'm guessing you'd never refer to me as Dragon Breath?" Kyle patted the purring cat one last time before rushing down the stairwell, jackhammering every second stair. He skipped the last four stairs with a long-legged jump, bringing his tennis shoes in for a slap landing against the wood floor.

He came to a halt and listened for a moment. Mom is humming a tune. That signifies something tasty is on the way.

His nose caught up the lovely odors of morning as he followed the pleasant sound. His mood brightened as he inhaled deeply, appreciating the delicious odors of fried bacon and fresh coffee, inspiring him to whistle along with his mother's song, a tune he had recently heard in a movie. What's the name of that song? I believe it has something to do with remembering the past.

She turned to face him as soon as he entered the kitchen, holding a foil pouch and a tall glass of orange juice. "I didn't cook you any bacon and eggs since I didn't know whether you'd be up on time," she explained. I don't think I'll be able to make any more."

Kyle frowned as he looked at the silver purse. "Pop-Tarts once more?"

"Breakfast is served hot to those who arrive early. You know, you're the one that had to stay up late."

Kyle grabbed the pouch and glass, leaned against the counter, and sipped the juice while watching his mother go about her business in the kitchen. He no longer required to reach upward to take something from her hand after his recent growth spurt. Except for the obvious contrasts, her slim, five-foot-seven physique mirrored his perfectly. She had shoulder-length hair that was lighter than his but not quite blonde, and she was unmistakably female. Her complexion was similarly lighter in tone, and she had German or Swedish face features.

Kyle shifted his gaze to the breakfast table. His father leaned back in his chair, a piece of toast in one hand and the newspaper in the other, his muscular, hairy hands holding the newspaper. Kyle's complexion was tinged with his father's tawnier tone, giving him a real combination of his mother and father. "My skin is too dark, and I'd never be able to get the hang of sipping hot tea," his father had responded when he enquired about his father's British forebears.

Kyle jerked himself out of his reverie. "Can I assist you with the dishes or something, Mom?"

She'd just finished putting a cooking pan in the sink. "Thank you, but no. Your father will finished them when he eats." She turned on the faucet and squirted a torrent of soap into the pan. "Did you spend last night working on the festival poster?"

"I wanted to finished that portrait for Dad's friend," she explained.

"Is it the basset hound's? What is the name of Dr. Holmes's dog?"

"I did leave it on Dad's—"

"Present and accounted for," said a deep voice. "It's right here," says the narrator.

Kyle swiveled around to find his father clutching a large piece of paper in his hand.

He went on to say, "You did a fantastic job. It reminds me of Sophie."

Kyle walked over to the table and sat down, placing his glass of juice next to his elbow with two big strides. "Thank you," he replied as he reached for his father's coffee cup. He waited, his finger curled around the warm mug, a wide smile on his face and a "may I please have a sip?" look on his face. His father gave him a cold stare, but Kyle knew it was all a ruse. The glitter in his father's brown eyes revealed his playacting, even though his father's thick eyebrows had curled downward and every line of his forty-something face had taken a hairpin turn toward his chin.

Kyle took a huge drink and peered over the side of the cup, as his father pretended to be interested in the sketch once more. Kyle placed the cup on the table, exclaimed, "Ahhh!" and wiped his mouth with his father's napkin. "Dr. Holmes gave you a small photo of Sophie," Kyle continued, pointing to the paper, "so I blew her up real large on my easel."

"It'll be a hit with Old Doc. How would you like to be compensated for this time?"

Kyle sipped his orange juice slowly before responding. "Simply instruct him to make a check payable to the Human Society with my name on the memo line. They'll be able to figure out what to do with it."

"Now you're putting your name in there? What exactly are they doing with the Kyle Langston wing for stray cats?"

"They are, after all, growing. You know, Salem's pals need a nicer location to live."

"Yes, I recall your decision to go to Salem. Those cat cages were stacked so high that they were higher than my head."

"As a result, they'll need all the assistance they can obtain."

"That's true, but don't you want to keep some of the money?"

"Not at all. At the event next night, I should be able to obtain plenty." Kyle grinned and looked down at his coffee cup. "Perhaps I'll make enough money to buy my own coffeemaker."

His father peered around the sketch, tipping the cup forward to inspect the penny-sized stain of coffee left at the bottom. "How much should I advise him to send?" his father asked.

Kyle shrugged his shoulders and responded, "I don't know. Twenty dollars?"

Kyle's father raised the portrait and looked at it once more. "This could be your best work yet." He laid the drawing on the table and began rolling it into a tube after wiping the table with a clean napkin. "I'm going to ask for fifty dollars. Doc shouldn't have any issues with that." He slid the cylinder between the salt and pepper shakers and took his folded newspaper off the table.

Kyle agreed, "Fifty would be fantastic."

"Right. For Christmas, Salem's buddies might want to get you a coffeemaker." His father grinned broadly and slapped Kyle on the head with his newspaper. Kyle reached for it, but his father pulled it from his grasp just in time. Kyle surged forward, around his father's neck with his arms, and yanked him to the ground. Right there in the Langston's kitchen, a world wrestling championship match had begun, although it wasn't particularly believable because both contestants were laughing so hard.

"I heard a motor, boys," Kyle's mother said from the doorway. "I believe the bus has arrived. But it's a little early."

Kyle leapt to his feet and lifted his father off the floor. He swelled with pride at his own ability to lift him up, despite his father being at least five inches taller and possibly forty pounds heavier. However, there isn't much fat in Dad's weight. With their regular squabbles, Kyle made sure of it.

"Dad, you'd better keep working out! I'll pin you one of these days!"

His father laughed as he ran his fingers over his thick, reddish brown hair. "There's no way."

Kyle ignored his own tangled locks and drank the last of his juice. He turned around just as he approached the corridor, gently stepping backwards as he talked. "Will you still be able to adjust your schedule for tomorrow so you can assist me at the festival booth?"

"Remember what I told you when you first asked?"

Kyle smiled and raised his finger to his father, who returned the gesture.

"You can count on it," they each answered, winking one eye.

Kyle turned back to try to catch the bus after they both laughed. Before rushing out the front door, he handed his mother the orange juice glass, kissed her on the cheek, and grabbed a rucksack. She winced and massaged her face before soon regaining her composure and waving.

Kyle was aware of her anguish, even in his haste. He returned the wave and resumed his quick pace, but he couldn't help but wonder if he had betrayed his secret—the mystery of his searing breath. While wrestling with his father, he had been careful to keep his mouth shut; any slip-up could make it clear.