Right now she’s cackling in the other room. Slow and calculated, as she makes up the story to words she can’t read yet, from one of the books she has opened from the pile that lay scattered about her feet. There’s a trail of books in fact from the bathroom door leading to underneath the dining room table where Schleich animals are splayed out amongst those books ready and waiting to play a part in the the scene she’s crafting from the caverns of her mind. Moments before she had thrown a fit about not wanting put her play-dough away, shoving all of her fingers in her mouth and biting down hard in frustration.