Little Maxillium stepped up beside his mother, looking very serious as he scanned his own list of scribbles. At five years old he knew his letters, but preferred to make up his own. “Dog picture,” Max said, as if reading from his list. “I might need one of those,” Wax said. “Quite useful.” Max solemnly presented it, then said, “Cat picture.” “Need one of those too.” “I’m bad at cats,” Max said, handing him another sheet. “So it looks like a squirrel.”
