I found a profitable market as a short-story writer and Myra was busy preparing for Ross Milan junior.
I always wanted a son. And, after the inevitable alarming span of months, a son arrived. He was a nice-looking kid, more like his mother than me. We were all crazy about him.
On the face of it, it looked like we had finished with black magic, policemen and hoodlums and were all set for a nice quiet trip to old age, but it didn’t work out like that.
One Sunday morning I was sitting at my desk trying to invent a situation for a story, when a sudden wild scream brought me to my feet. Throwing down my pen, I rushed into the garden.
Myra, Doc and Sam were staring into the sky with horrified expressions.
I followed their gaze and my reason almost crumbled.
Thirty feet or so in the air sat Ross Millan junior. He waved his toy Mickey Mouse excitedly when he saw me.
“Look, Pop,” he shouted happily, “I’m flying!”