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For the past three nights a bear has knocked on my door asking to use the bathroom. “Occupied,” I shout through the mail slot, “Out of order.” I wonder if it’s the same bear every night, or if it’s a group of bears conspiring to play a little prank. Or maybe it’s one of the three bears.  Goldilocks not sitting quite right in Papa bear’s belly, and he’s not about to just squat down right there in a bush like some animal. Though now I think I remember in the end Goldilocks gets away. Slipping out Baby bear’s bedroom window into the forest edging on darkness, all alone and scared out of her wits, if only for a tepid bowl of porridge and a bed that’s not-quite-right . . . And here I am in my own not-quite-right bed when the knocking comes again.  Tonight, my curiosity gets the best of me. “Come in, come in,” I say, and in she strolls, her dress torn, platinum tresses tussled, followed by the rest of the Bear family.  Why Baby Bear’s cuter than a teddy in his blue overalls, and Mama wears an apron with a picture of a hen brooding on a stack of pancakes. Papa hops from foot to foot, doing a little pee-pee dance. “Down the hall to the left,” I say, and I know I’m going to regret this . . . “But what the hell, why not stay the night.”