Zorro tells me when to wake up. 5:47 on weekdays; 8 on weekends. When I try
to hit the snooze button that I forget isn’t there, he twirls his cape from his back,
rolls it tight and snaps my neck. If I do it again he cracks his whip around my
hand, and yanks it like the leash of a disobedient Chihuahua. I’m usually up by
then. But once I did it a third time. He twirled the ends of his skinny stache,
shook his head, cracked his knuckles, and removed his mask.