"Five four three two one!" Cece shouted, bursting unceremoniously through the bedroom door. She was covered from neck to foot by an old-fashioned white dress. A small afghan–handmade by Pam's grandmother–was draped over her shoulders. She held a book in one hand, and a fountain pen was tucked behind her ear.

Jim, naturally, had heard her thundering down the hallway. He wasn't startled in the least, but he leapt backward on the bed, eyes wide in feigned surprise. Either Cece was high on sugar, or high on the idea of all the sugar she'd be collecting before the end of the night. Her enthusiasm was infectious, bringing back fond memories of Halloweens from Jim's younger years.

Laughing, Pam followed their daughter into the bedroom at a more sedate pace. Phillip was in her arms. "Honey, that's not how countdowns… uh, never mind. Ta-da!" she giggled at Jim. Setting down their son, she spread her arms in a belated flourish.

"We're in a hurry!" Cece insisted. "Guess who I am, daddy! I'm a pioneer! Annnd… I'm crazy!" she shrieked. She began hooting like Daffy Duck, running around in circles.

Drawing a blank, but amused regardless, Jim blinked up at Pam. He was definitely going to need some help with this one.

"Virginia Woolf," she supplied. Bending over, she retrieved the fountain pen, which had fallen to the floor in a predictable way. Jim would be surprised if it survived the night. "The British author. She pioneered stream of consciousness as a narrative device."

Jim couldn't help wondering how much of that had been aped from the Wikipedia biography. If it wasn't word-for-word, he'd eat raw picanha for breakfast (not really, though… never again).

"Yeah that!" Cece added unnecessarily. "D'you like it, daddy?"

Jim loved it. Nodding his approval, he grinned. The baring of teeth might have frightened people who didn't know him so well.

Pam cleared her throat, drawing his attention. She was wearing a tuxedo. She'd drawn on a thin handlebar mustache, and her hair was slicked back from her face with gel. When she spoke, her voice was gruff and artificially deep. "I solve problems. I think fast, I talk fast, and I need you guys to act fast if you want to get out of this."

So pretty please, Jim added mentally, with sugar on top… clean the fuckin' car. He nodded his emphatic approval, smiling with his eyes. She was The Wolf, from Pulp Fiction. One of his all-time favorite characters, from one of his all-time favorite movies.

Even better, Jim was starting to notice a pattern here, and he was starting to feel all kinds of ways about that.

Last, but certainly not least, he tilted his head inquisitively at their son. Phillip was dressed to the nines in a handsome little suit, a bright blue necktie, and a pair of tiny black glasses. The lenses had been popped out, of course. His hair was brushed back from his face, and artificially white. Jim could smell the remnants of hair spray paint. Non-toxic, no doubt.

"And who are you, Phillip?" Pam prompted him.

"Blitz!" he said simply, beaming like the sun.

This time, Jim got it without the need for adult translation. Wolf Blitzer, the famous journalist. He nodded again, well beyond moved at this point. His heart gave an almost-painful thump. If he'd been human, he would have cried in that moment. Unfortunately, canine tear ducts were incapable.

Instead, in an entirely uncharacteristic maneuver, he reared up onto his hind legs and rested his paws on Pam's shoulders. Lowering his muzzle to the crook of her neck, he exhaled a soft wuf.

She wrapped her arms around him, ruffling the fur behind his ears. "We'll always be your pack," she whispered tenderly.