Karen rushed into the kitchen.
Her mother let out a sigh and said into the phone, “Hold on a minute.” She gave Karen the eye. “What is it now?”
“Can I have one more donut? Please?” Karen gave her mother the nicest little angel smile she could muster.
“Just take the bag,” her mother said. “And don’t get any of that sugar on your clothes.”
Karen grabbed the bag from the counter and returned to the backyard.
“Okay,” she said as she sat back down at the edge of the sandbox. “There’s only two left, so we can each have one.”
She pulled one out of the bag and held it in the air.
"This is what we call a donut,” she said. “Can you say donut?”
Ambassador Klarn, fifth generation diplomat from the First Federation and sole survivor of the invasion fleet glanced at his warbird, buried in the sand. Then he stared at the girl, the gigantic child, towering over his 6 inch frame. He could feast on that pastry for a week.
He sighed, brushed a fleck of sand from his jacket, and said in his most dignified voice, “Donut.”