DYLAN and DADDY are on the way home from a craft fair.
DYLAN: I don’t believe Santa is real.
DADDY: Okay. I imagine he doesn’t believe in you either.
DYLAN: Why?
DADDY: Well, if he’s not real, how’s he supposed to believe in you?
DYLAN: Well, Santa’s supposed to be a good guy, right?
DADDY: Yeah. I think so.
DYLAN: But Santa comes into everyone’s house without asking. Like a robber.
DADDY: That’s… a good point. But wait, didn’t you write a letter to Santa asking him to bring you things?
DYLAN: I don’t think so. I don’t know how to read.
DADDY: But you saw him at the mall and sat on his lap, didn’t you? (Suddenly panics that he might be about to imply that sitting on a man’s lap grants implicit consent for him to visit you in the night)
DYLAN: No.
DADDY: I have pictures.
DYLAN: Oh. But I don’t think that was the real Santa. I think that was a man in a costume.
DADDY: Yeah. I think Santa has helpers for stuff like that.
DYLAN: Okay. Then I guess maybe Santa is real, if he has helpers.