"No goldfish!" Twitching, unable to see what was going on in a tangle of sheets and darkness, I sensed that some sort of rebuttal was required. I managed something between a gurgle and a poorly-articulated mumble.
Kit was more successful. "Goldfish?" This was met by the shrieked rejoinder, "No more goldfish! No goldfish downstairs."
"Were you having a bad dream?" elicited the sullen response, "No goldfish downstairs."
"Yes, there are no goldfish downstairs," I said, carefully recapitulating the established facts.
Mommy, thinking quite swiftly for someone jolted awake at 4:15, asked, "Are you hungry?"
Everyone in the room held their breath. Even the dog held her breath. If nothing else, it was nice to get silence back for a moment. At last, there was a quiet, "...'kay."
Having identified the issue, we sprang into action. By that, I mean I tried to stand up and stumbled into the bedroom wall as I hunted for the door. It had evidently moved a couple feet to the right sometime during the night as a security precaution and it took me several attempts to find it.
My departing call of, "I shall fetch you some goldfish crackers, my lad," was somewhat diminished by the fact that the muscles responsible for running my mouth were still asleep and I'd possibly just given myself a concussion on the wall. I think the word "goldfish" was intelligible.
"But no goldfish downstairs," Timothy said, circling back to his original tenet. "They upstairs."
I left Kit to explain that goldfish could cross the boundary between floors while I went to the kitchen, journeying across the creakiest of all floors. But that's another tale.
I managed to bumble back downstairs with a tupperware container holding a handful of goldfish. Kit sat up with Timothy while he munched and then, slowly, with several false attempts, fell back asleep. We eventually fell back asleep and are vaguely coherent this morning. But if we react to goldfish crackers as if we have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, perhaps you'll understand why.