Imagine a small, old-fashioned bar. It’s the kind of place where the wooden sign outside makes a soft creaking sound when the wind blows. Inside, the air is warm and smells like old wood and spilled beer. A duck, yes, a real duck, walks right through the door. He waddles, just like ducks do, and hops up onto a stool at the bar. He looks around, then in a voice that’s surprisingly clear, he says, “I’d like a pint of your local ale, please, and a ham sandwich.”
The bartender, a big man with a thick mustache that curls up at the ends, stops what he’s doing. He looks at the duck, then looks again. “Wait a minute!” he says, his voice full of surprise. He picks up a glass and starts polishing it with a cloth. “You’re… a duck!”
