“What do you know?” Conor spat. “What do you know about anything?” “I know about you, Conor O’Malley,” the monster said.
“No, you don’t,” Conor said. “If you did, you’d know I don’t have time to listen
to stupid, boring stories from some stupid, boring tree that isn’t even real–”
“Oh?” said the monster. “Did you dream the berries on the floor of your room?”
“Who cares even if I didn’t?!” Conor shouted back. “They’re just stupid berries.
Woo-hoo, so scary. Oh, please, please, save me from the berries!”
The monster looked at him quizzically. “How strange,” it said.
“The words you say tell me you are scared of the berries, but your actions seem to suggest otherwise.”
“You’re as old as the land and you’ve never heard of sarcasm?” Conor asked.
“Oh, I have heard of it,” the monster said, putting its huge branch hands on its hips.
But people usually know better than to speak it to me.”
“Can’t you just leave me alone?” The monster shook its head, but not in answer to Conor’s question.
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