Cory left his friends standing in front of the refrigerated cases in the gas station. The smell of fried food was making him hungry, but his friends were there for beer only. He needed their acceptance, so he ignored his empty stomach. While his buddies argued over Miller or Coors, he had spotted a box of crayons hanging next to a motor oil display. Snatching up the box, he walked around the corner away from the laughter of his friends. He opened the box, brought it up to his nose and breathed in Saturday afternoons at his grandmother's kitchen table.