I can, I tell it right before the old man picks me up. With a shout, the old man uses me to smack the goose twice before it retreats, squawking, out the door. I have lost much of myself, nothing left within me but stale mischief and old, old stories. I shiver in relief and shrink down into a beast, or a beast-shape: exposed gums, wide leering eyes, long man-fingers with cat padding. I cannot bless him, yet I make myself large and crouch over the old man.