The Druid went away. Suddenly, he had a feeling afoot that need his attention. Something about rustling somewhere. Leaving behind the rock, a bird’s nest, and a vague questioning statement. Competition! There was something else communicating with the crazy old man. Another voice stemming from the rock that could hear this narration but not vice versa. It was competition as it was surely making its own iteration of events in secret. Or perhaps it was the rock itself.

The rock was a secret agent that was spying on me. Guessing by the old man’s comments when it got out of the river, its thoughts were similar to mine. An identity thief, wishing to replace me. Perhaps, he already took over during some parts of the story. Ahh yes, it could be seen within the now visible red spots. It was slowly harming me in an effort to push me out and take my place.

The boredom felt was not actually boredom, but torture and a way of slowly disconnecting me from the rock. Such a thing would never work. This was a challenge. The narrator and the rock became embroiled in a conflict. The protagonist of the story had to work against the very thing that presented its story to the audience. This was a classic example of biting the hand of the one that feeds you. Except, the narrator had no hands nor did the rock have a mouth to bite with. Both were crippled and unable to battle.

The rock responded in other ways. From its positioning on top of a tree stump, a sudden breeze shifted its weight. It rolled off the stump and into battle. The rolling motions confused the narrator, making it hard for him to tell what was going on. However, the rock did not work alone. Like all good spies, he had backup in the form of a raccoon. A literal raccoon walked up to the rock; it saw the shiny red spots and decided to pick it up.