Hansel, grown, bashes at the gingerbread door until it crumbles under his shoulder.
Inside we stand in wonder and horror, gazing at familiar sugar concoctions covered in mold. I mutter that we shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t breathe the air, so he punches out a row of hard candy windows.
He opens the oven door on the witch’s body, a charred and twisted lump that the spiders have incorporated into their design concept for that interior. I feel myself beginning to be sick even before he says, “I hope you brought the shovels, Gretel, because this would absolutely sink my career.”
Author’s Note: Sometimes you have to clean up the skeletons in the oven before you can really feel secure.