Jack Paper went back to his old house his young son in tow and drew the dragon from a trunk, poor dusty thing beneath the boards forgotten, small and lost tail set stiff at right angles to its body; but when held up to the sun, it grew warmer, heavy, drew breath shaking off years of lassitude and reached down to the boy who held it tight throughout the journey back. But out the window of the car they flew and tread the mountain clouds and traced the coastline round past pirate ships with lowered flags and down to the dragon’s lair where they played until the autumn mists rolled in. On a beach somewhere, Jack Paper paced thinking he might retrace his steps and find the son he lost but found not string nor sealing wax nor anything at all but ocean waves standing tall and wind whipped sand and dunes that rolled endlessly. Where is my boy stolen in his childhood by the dragon who stole mine? Time’s pitter patter steps creep incrementally to the water’s edge to greet the incoming tide and out and out until they blur the horizon.