“Allow me,” the tree says, its voice low. “Um... okay.” I continue squatting with my hands on my thighs and try not to tremble as a tendril the width of my forearm glides through the air, aiming straight for my sex. “Wait.” I rise and try to step back, but the branch returns to wrap around my waist. “That thing is too big.” “Hush.” The branch splits into five smaller tendrils, each with blunt tips. My breath turns shallow and I force myself to stay still. Is the tree making a hand?
