He called it his armor and wore it proudly over his shoulder, a spindly branch with a fistful of sticks like long bony fingers poking in several directions. He stretched a piece across his chest and discussed it’s protective value, and I could see if he was walking through a boy-sized spider web the branch might poke through a string of silk, fitting as it did like tumbleweed attached to a bottle of ketchup or a cat at the end of vacuum tube—that is, not at all.
I said no, but he sat at the table and fished for a piece of mango by moving his chest from side to side and whipping the longest branch across the plate. Eventually he grabbed the fruit with his fingers and chewed with the casual tree arching around him.
He stood over the cat and again twisted his trunk from side to side, and the cat stood on his hind legs and lifted his paw to a branch on the boy and was delighted.