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Folded out of notebook paper by the only kid in class who could fold one. Eight fortunes written in blue ballpoint pen. You picked a color, you picked a number, you picked a number, you learned you were going to marry Brian.

You pulled the cap off, pointed the nozzle at a Ritz, and pulled the trigger. What came out was the color of a highway sign and the texture of toothpaste, and you ate it without ever once asking how cheese got into an aerosol can.

A whole house, a swimming pool, a piano, four rooms and a swing, all sealed inside a heart that snapped shut with a click. The Polly herself was the size of an aspirin and gone within a week.

Six cookies, a thumb-sized puddle of frosting, and the daily lunchroom test of whether you could pace yourself or not.

It was bolted to the wall by the chalkboard. It had eight holes and only one of them fit. Mrs. Carlson picked someone to use it during silent reading and it was almost always not you.

You handed the machine a piece of U.S. currency and 50 cents in service fees. It handed back a warm oval with a bear on it. You did not have a plan for the bear.