You could just hand over the bag and this would be over in an instant. But then you wouldn’t have any battle scars to tell your grandchildren about. What the hell. You shoot your hand in the bag—clutching the milk chocolate bite. Dash springs onto your arm; her hooves intercept your hand as it clears the bag. Despite your best efforts, she somehow begins prying your fingers open with the edges of her hooves. You hastily set the book on the coffee table and bring your other hand into the fight. She rotates around your arm until her back is against your chest and her hind leg is pressing on the armrest. It was a pretty smart move, her new position allowed her to push your arm away from your torso with a lot of force. Your other hand holds your fingers closed as you struggle to bring them to your mouth. ”Stop. Struggling!” She yells. Her wing shoots out and presses against your face, blinding you. It doesn’t matter. You were born in the dark. Molded by it. You feel a tongue lash out at a small gap in between your fingers.