“It comes to the house at night, tells me stories.” His father blinked, baffled. “What?”
“I thought it was a dream at first,” Conor said, scratching at the label with his thumbnail,
“but then I kept finding leaves when I woke up and little trees growing out of the floor.
I’ve been hiding them all so no one will find out.” “Conor–” “It hasn’t come to grandma’s house yet.
I was thinking she might live too far away–” “What are you–?” “But why should it matter if it’s all a dream, though?
Why wouldn’t a dream be able to walk across town? Not if it’s as old as the earth and as big as the world–”
“Conor, stop this–” “I don’t want to live with grandma,” Conor said,
his voice suddenly strong and filled with a thickness that felt like it was choking him.
He kept his eyes firmly on the Coke bottle label, his thumbnail scraping the wet paper away.
Why can’t I come and live with you? Why can’t I come to America?His father licked his lips.
“You mean when–” “Grandma’s house is an old lady’s house,” Conor said.
His father gave another small laugh. “I’ll be sure to tell her you called her an old lady.”
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