H: (in a weird, deep voice) Give me a cookie.
M: No way. No cookies in bed.
H: It will be mine!
M: No, and especially not if you keep talking creepily like that.
H: But I’m pretty!
M: Of course you are, babe…
H: Get down! Get down! There’s gunfire! … Or maybe it’s just a truck backfire.
M: No guns or trucks here. Just me. You should lay down now.
H: I can lay down here, like this.
M: Yes, good. Are you okay now?
H: I look pretty.
H: I look like a truck. I have a box on my head.