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“Which one of us is the character here?” I jest, stretching my long legs out in front of me and resting them on the edge of the desk nearby.


Mouse glares down at my imaginary boots, only inches from where his ugly green overalls meet the surface of the wooden desk, and he quickly steps away.  


“You tell me, Author. Did you create me, or did I make you up instead?” he asks with a smug little grin.

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