I groggily rubbed my eyes, half-asleep, trying to figure out why I couldn’t move.

When I looked down, there she was—Sharkstark, my pet shark since I was a kid, now somehow flopped across my chest like a big scaly blanket.

Her tail lazily twitched as she paused her Nintendo game, still lying on top of me, butt facing the ceiling.

Without even looking up, she muttered, “You overslept again… I’m not moving ’til you make pancakes.”