ROBBIE (as Eskimo tucks her in): I can’t move.
ROBBIE: Lance would let me stay up late.
ESKIMO: Lance would let you kill a man.
LANCE: But I wouldn’t condone it.
ESKIMO: Now, do you want a lullaby or a scary story?
ROBBIE: I want a really, really scary story.
ESKIMO (turning on a flashlight beneath her chin, spookily): OK, you asked for it. Once… there was… a little… girl.
LANCE: Not unlike yourself.
ESKIMO: And she had two irresponsible babysitters.
LANCE: Not unlike ourself.
ESKIMO: One day… the girl… ate… some ice cream. But not just any ice cream… chocolate.
ROBBIE: That’s it? Chocolate ice cream? That won’t give me nightmares!
ESKIMO: Wait, I’m not done! Okay: “–The end.”
ROBBIE: Whatever! I’m going to sleep.
(Robbie, asleep, dreams of herself eating ice cream, with semi-obscured exclamations behind her: “NO!” “HELP ME!” “PLEASE MOMMY!” “MY GOD WHY HAVE” etc. etc.)