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A clear plastic dome. Two dice inside. You pressed the top and they tumbled and the dome went POP, and you never held a die in your life. Trouble solved a problem nobody had asked to solve.

A plastic bottle shaped like a fruit with a smiling face. A twist-off head. Six ounces of thickened corn syrup. You drank the head, then you crushed the body. Nobody thought this was strange.

A pink plastic hockey puck. A snap-on lid that was already slightly loose. Six feet of gum measured out in inches, and thirty seconds of flavor to spend it in.

The pole was warm. The rope had a knot from where the last kid tried to fix it. The rules were made up by whoever was winning, and if you argued, they made up new ones.

It had three prongs. You had two hands. This was the whole design brief. Every game rewrote which two prongs you were supposed to be holding, and the third one sat there, unheld, judging you for being a bipedal mammal with the standard number of thumbs.

You had a plastic sleeve of colored sugar water, frozen so hard it hurt your teeth. You couldn't open it. You needed scissors. You needed your mom. You needed to accept that the corner of the plastic tube was going to cut the corner of your mouth, and that this was, in fact, a fair price.