The old man ran swift as the moon on a hot summer's night. Playing tag with the boys on the block. His friends, all in the same two or three grade level classes at P.S. 135 and all ravioli-raised or kugel-grown.

He wished the for the day he was really grown up--at least twenty-one or so. No, at least sixteen with his own set of wheels--or at least, his dad's he could borrow.