There was a girl at kindergarten whom I made telling me how she plays pranks on her father over and over and over again. Not that she needed coaxing. When someone listens to you, hanging on every word you say, one does not need a lot of encouraging. My doubling up and shrieking with laughter was more than reward to her for telling the story. Her accounts was preposterous yet extremely creative and I suspected that she was lying. I convinced myself otherwise, for I wanted to believe. Spurred on by her success as master story teller, albeit for a one-man audience, her recounting of fictional events became more and more elaborate and absurd. Though se could entertain me endlessly, I never became friends with the girl.