Our morning route to Jackson's school takes us past a cemetery. The natural extension of which is me answering questions about zombies.
"Even though I know zombies don't exist," [the standard disclaimer], "what if all the people in the cemetery turned into zombies?"
"We'd have to find a way to kill them so there'd never be any more."
This territory is well tread. Trodden. We've been here a lot, is what I'm saying, but yesterday Jackson thinks a step in a bold new direction.
"How could we prevent zombies from making more zombies?"
Ah, I think. The anticipation of supernatural horror brings us one step closer to the Age of Reason. "I guess we could cremate everyone, that way no zombies would be created ever again."
Jackson, impressed at the fine crenellation of his mother's mind, is silent for the rest of the ride.
Later, I pick him up at school. Before he's even in the car, time collapses. "Mitchell," he says, referring to one of his classmates, "doesn't want to be cremated."
"Oh, dear," I say.
"I know," he says, "he says he'd rather be a zombie."