The tiny dragon – well, tiny in dragon speak at least - shuddered from head to toe, shaking his head and swishing his tail discontentedly. Emma, distracted from the orange she was peeling free of its aromatic skin, looked at him curiously, “Silly dragon, what’s wrong… you don’t look at all right.”
In just the nick of time, she ducked behind the tree she had been leaning against, as a giant stream of sticky spray and snot flew across the grass in her direction, the rumble shaking even the leaves above her.
“Of course I don’t look right – what’s right about a dragon with a cold?! I’m supposed to be flitting around the park, nibbling tasty tidbits and listening to the stories people tell … not sneezing and sniffling and suffering …” came the dragon’s plaintive wail.
“Oh, poor dragon … there, there … would you like some orange?”