Dear Ryan

Please forgive me, but I am going to have to make fun of you now. You went to bed not feeling so great, so when I got in bed just now, I asked you how you were doing. Apparently you were not awakened enough by my getting in the bed to answer that question coherently. Your answer was, "Spicy fight!" Huh? I asked you two or three times what you said, and each time you excitedly whispered, "spicy fight!" When something like this happens you usually wake up laughing at yourself about now. Not this time. I knew that asking you much more was pushing my luck, but I was too intrigued to let it go. "Ryan, what does 'spicy fight' mean?" "It's how many spaces our characters get to fight." "What?" "It's how many places our characters get to move forward." You're still talking in an excited whisper and still as asleep as you can be. So, I decide to just try once more for clarification. I don't even bother to speak softly at this point because you are definitely not waking up to talk to me or laugh at yourself. You are pretty serious about this. I wonder what I've interrupted. "Ryan, 'spicy fight' is how many places our characters get to move forward. Is that right?" Your reply was simple, and I think a tad dismissive, a quickly whispered, "Yeah!" And with that I let you go back to whatever spiciness you're up to in dreamland. You, of course, will never remember that we've had this little chat, much less its contents or the dream that was the source. I hope you win, if it's that kind of fight. And I hope there's something to drink if things get too spicy. (And I hope you're not too mad at me when you get around to figuring out I've written this.) Sleep disorders are fun sometimes, and you're a pretty good sport. I love you.
Jess