The house is quiet, I'm walking down the little hallway outside of our bedrooms, and the overhead light is on. John's room is dark and the door is cracked. I turn off the light.
"I'M READING MY BOOK!" John yells indignantly from the other side of the door.
My parents will understand why this is so funny. When I was about eight or ten, I once burned a hole in my bedspread when I put a desk lamp under it to hide the fact that I was reading some sci-fi novel or another late into the wee hours of the night.