One morning the tigers came in while we were eating breakfast and before my father could grab a weapon they killed him and they killed my mother. My parents didn’t even have time to say anything before they were dead. I was still holding the spoon from the mush I was eating.
“Don’t be afraid,” one of the tigers said. “We’re not going to hurt you. We don’t hurt children. Just sit where you are and we’ll tell you a story.”
One of the tigers was eating my mother. He bit her arm off and started chewing on it. “What kind of story would you like to hear? I know a good story about a rabbit.”
“I don’t want to hear a story,” I said.
“OK,” the tiger said, and he took a bite out of my father. I sat there for a long time with the spoon in my hand, and then I put it down.
“Those were my folks,” I said, finally.
“We’re sorry,” one of the tigers said. “We wouldn’t do this if we didn’t have to, if we weren’t absolutely forced to. But this is the only way we can keep alive.”
“We’re just like you,” the other tiger said. “We speak the same language you do. We think the same thoughts, but we’re tigers.”
“You could help me with my arithmetic,” I said.
“What’s that?” one of the tigers said.
“My arithmetic.”
“Oh, your arithmetic.”
“Yeah.”
“What do you want to know?” one of the tigers said.
“What’s nine times nine?”
“Eighty-one,” a tiger said.
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