“But Treeman is NOT a story! He’s real!”
Joanie’s cereal spoon became punctuation, slammed on the breakfast table at the end of each sentence, as her older brothers laughed at her, hooted like monkeys, after having baited the nine-year-old.
Mrs. Laughlin entered the kitchen, checking her purse, already running late for the office.
“Stop torturing your sister!” she warned, her brow beetling into a threat the boys could understand better than language. They got up from the table and dispersed.