It happened when Dad was eight. He kicked a mossy rock barefoot to see if it would crack. His big toe bled, ballooned larger than a fist, pained him so he couldn’t walk home. When the moon rose full, a Goblin Prince prowled through the evergreen shadows, summoned by the ailing moss. He’d make a trade with the weeping boy. A toe for a toe, a spell to reach the forest’s edge. A promise to never return. And it’s true Dad never took me hiking, never taught me poison oak from vinca vines. Growing up, I’d cry when Dad wore sandals, push my dinner plate away untouched, when the crinkled green toenail winked from under the table.