Out in the backyard, I find a stick about two feet long and push one end into the lawn, then sit down cross-legged in front of it and begin staring at it.

Fleegle watches from his spot in the shade under the bamboo where he chews on a stick of his own. “Whatcha doing, Raud?”

“I had a dream last night where I could move things with my mind. I was a street performer and I made flags fly above the audience’s heads like magic carpets. The people loved it.”

“So you’re trying to move the stick by staring at it?”

I nod. “Yes, exactly.”

“Will we take a magic carpet to work instead of the car?”

“Maybe, if I can move this stick.”

“What you call a car, I call my kennel, my home away from home. A carpet isn’t going to give me the den-like feeling I like,” he says, gets up and grabs the stick out of the lawn. “You’re going to have to practice your mind powers with something else because every stick back here belongs to me, though I might part with one or two for the right price.”

“And what is the going cookie rate for a stick?”

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