I keep thinking about my friend Max and how when he was seven years old he got t...

I keep thinking about my friend Max and how when he was seven years old he got to carve his first pumpkin. I was late to the pumpkin-carving party and by the time I arrived, Max was in his room, crying.
“You should go talk to him,” his mother said to me. “He’s got a problem you’ll understand.”
I went upstairs, and this is what Max told me: “The beautiful jack-o-lantern that was in my head is not the jack-o-lantern that I made. I couldn’t get it to turn out right.”
“Oh boy,” I said. “I sure k...