At the ceremony of choosing, she had seemed desperate and pitiful. She seemed like she needed help. She seemed like a good choice.

Man, was I wrong.

Taking the form of the girl’s doll once again as she enters to room braces me for the torture that is sure to come.

See, I’m a gnome. Not a porcelain old man like the stupid humans made us out to be, but a protector of children. Every child has one until the second they turn 18. After my previous kid turned into an adult, I had to choose a new child to look after.

Gnomes are talented shape-shifters and can change into any item at will to keep their kid from discovering them. Ever had an item appear randomly, and you have no idea how it got there? It’s a gnome. Ever had a item mysteriously go missing and never found again? It was a gnome. Every mystery in the human youth’s life if usually, you guessed it, a gnome.

The girl, no older than 6 stomps into the room with post lunch crumbs covering her entire face. She sits down in front of her doll house, slobbery fingers reaching out to me.

And so the torture begins.