'I think I'm allergic to sunshine,' Silky Josephine tells me this morning. 'Peter Pan is too,' she says, and Pete nods vigorously, his little piglet ears flapping like little piglet wings ...winglets.  

'How's that?' I ask, setting their breakfast down in front of them. 

'It makes us sleepy,' Silky explains. 

I nod. 'A clear sign,' I say. 'You're definitely allergic to sunshine.' 

Silky, possibly not expecting me to so readily agree with her, looks worried, but not nearly as worried as Peter Pan, who looks absolutely stricken with fret. 

'Is there a cure?' Silky asks. 

'There is,' I say, and Silky sighs with relief. Peter Pan, however, has had a cure or two that was, if not, as unbearable as the predicament, nearly so, and has shifted his worry in that direction, shaking now visibly, his breakfast untouched. 

'What is it?' Silky asks, 'The cure?' 

'Sunshine,' I tell her, because it's true. 'The only cure for a sunshine allergy, is more sunshine,' I say, 'Lay in it, roll in it, run in it, play in it. You'll be fine in no time at all.' 

And even Peter Pan, worrisome as he is, likes the sound of this.