"Touch me with that stick, and I'll break your arm."
She was not in the mood today. Not in the mood to be touched with slimy sticks, to search for striped rocks, or to even pick blackberries. Her brother didn't understand that. Obviously. She just wanted to be left alone, sitting in the middle of a clump of alder trees. But it was no longer a suitable place to mope, now that he was there with his slimy stick and constant rambling about frogs and grasshoppers and how the cat that had killed a mouse yesterday. She pushed herself off the ground, walking past her little brother without looking at him. The urge to shove him to the ground was great, but she resisted. There were acres and acres of forest to explore on their property, but he would rather follow her around, asking her over and over to feel the stick. It was incomprehensible to her. To him, though, it was as natural as the wind. Why shouldn't he tag along? Why shouldn't she like to hear all his stories? Why shouldn't she want to feel the slimy stick? It was the most amazing texture he'd discovered all week, yet she refused. As she marched away, he quickly followed behind, inviting her one more time to touch the stick.
"If that stick touches me, I'll break your arm..."