I was a five-year-old with a fever, so only a hint of skepticism darted through my thoughts as I looked down and considered the possibility. "It's a long drop," I said.
"But that's all a part of the fun. It wouldn't be fun if it was only a short drop. If it were that way you may as well just bounce on a real trampoline."
I toyed with the idea, picturing myself falling through thin air only to bounce back to the window on something unseen by human eyes. But the realist in me prevailed. "Maybe some other time," I said. "I don't know if I have enough imagination. I could get hurt."
Mr. Widemouth's face contorted into a snarl, but only for a moment. Anger gave way to disappointment. "If you say so," he said. He spent the rest of the day under my bed, quiet as a mouse.
The following morning Mr. Widemouth arrived holding a small box. "I want to teach you how to juggle," he said. "Here are some things you can use to practice, before I start giving you lessons."
I looked in the box. It was full of knives. "My parents will kill me!" I shouted, horrified that Mr. Widemouth had brought knives into my room– objects that my parents would never allow me to touch. "I'll be spanked and grounded for a year!"
Mr. Widemouth frowned. "It's fun to juggle with these. I want you to try it."
I pushed the box away. "I can't. I'll get in trouble. Knives aren't safe to just throw in the air."
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Mr. Widemouth's frown deepened into a scowl. He took the box of knives and slid under my bed, remaining there the rest of the day. I began to wonder how often he was under me.
I started having trouble sleeping after that. Mr. Widemouth often woke me up at night, saying he put a real trampoline under the window, a big one, one that I couldn't see in the dark. I always declined and tried to go back to sleep, but Mr. Widemouth persisted. Sometimes he stayed by my side until early in the morning, encouraging me to jump.
