That morning, Kyle burst through his bedroom door, charged down the stairs, and careened into the unfortunate kitchen table. There, he inhaled copious amounts of bacon, drank prodigious mountains of slightly runny scrambled eggs, washing each barely chewed morsel down his frantic throat with several gallon jugs of orange juice, at least from his mother's perspective. Kyle had always been a bottomless pit capable of consuming entire pizzas, cakes, and slow-moving cattle single-handedly, but that morning, Jamie stared at her son in awe, witnessing, she assumed, proof his entire digestive tract was comprised of tapeworms.

Kyle, to his credit, ignored her constant attempts to thwart his onslaught. Slow down, she said. You'll get a stomachache, came next. You'll gnaw off your fingers! she tried. At least chew, she complained. Nothing she said registered; he didn't even look at her, seeking the source of the constant interruptions.

Kyle was hungry; ravenous, voracious, and utterly desperate to shove anything unfortunate enough to catch his eye—guilty only of looking delicious—immediately between his constantly moving teeth. Jamie exaggerated the scene only marginally, coloring it with her own particular brand of artistic flair, but it was like describing a hulking battleship as huge or gargantuan, as no single concept could actually eclipse its already mind-numbing size.

Frank watched the implicit war between Jamie and Kyle for quite some time, bemused his wife's famous ability to comically overstate a situation was laid low by someone who didn't say a single word. "You know, Kyle," he began, "I've seen an entire pack of wolves take down a deer and cart-off chunks of it in five minutes." He paused for emphasis, "Yeah. I think they could learn a thing or two from you, kid." He put a hand to his ear and arced his neck toward a window, possibly listening to something outside. "Yup. I think I hear 'em now, making a snowman in your honor. Why not go out and teach 'em how it's done?"

Kyle's father had a gift for creativity, probably his true secret to a long career as a successful marketing genius. So his surprised and slightly betrayed look was genuine when Kyle failed to respond to such a painstakingly amusing barb. Kyle continued to eat, eyes only for his plate, hands scrambling frequently for nearby edible substances. Despite himself, Frank chuckled and turned back to his newspaper, wondering what he'd tell the doctor after Kyle exploded.

Kyle could hardly believe it himself. Though he continued to grab more bacon, or an apple, or another pancake, while he chewed and swallowed laboriously, he wanted nothing more than to simply be full. His parents were merely vehicles for more food, and his body a tool for transporting it to his mouth. He wanted to talk, to consider a response to his parents' stream of metaphors, but it was useless. Eat, his brain said. So, he ate. Kyle could only remember one other occasion where he shocked himself at his capacity to gorge endlessly, and that was after a long grueling hike where his father had managed to foul the supplies. He walked miles that day, up and down steep paths, baking in the blazing sun, hungry and weak with overexertion. But he ate a big dinner before going to bed, and he certainly didn't get lost hiking for two days before morning. Maybe it was an impending growth spurt.

It didn't matter, though, as the grandfather clock in the living room proclaimed 7am, prompting him to cram a few more hasty handfulls of bacon into his mouth, and still chewing, bolt for the outside door. His mother was so taken aback by the sudden and unprecedented movement that she took a slight step toward Kyle's former seat and raised her hand as if to stop him. Frank hauled up his own arm and flicked his hand at her; that gesture said, forget it lady, he's gone. She sighed and started gathering the teetering stack of plates Kyle accumulated during his insatiable reign of destruction.

Outside, Kyle thundered down the porch steps, each elicited a sharp squeak as he hammered forcefully and purposefully forward; he didn't want to be late for school. A tiny whine emerged from under the porch itself, stopping him before he reached the sidewalk. Dammit! The dog! Still chafing to resume his mission, he looked down slightly, aiming his gaze between the steps where their dog preferred to stay instead of a tiny doghouse. But the animal was quicker than Kyle, already emerged from its hiding place, and busy licking his hand. Hungry Dog whined again, turning its gaze toward a box at the top of the stairs. Kyle nodded at Hungry Dog, turning around curtly and drumming up the stairs he'd so recently abused. "C'mon Samson," he called.

Samson was a colossal Saint Bernard, massive enough to force different, deeper groans from the stairs as he impressed each with his considerable girth. Samson was also old and possibly even senile, which is to be expected when dogs reach the tremendous age of 12. But lethargic and doddering, he knew the routine, and was similarly trapped by The System. The System was how they fed Samson every day. Open the large box full of oversized kibble, scoop out two generous, heaping mounds, and pat Samson on the head to signal permission. A dog as large and capable as Samson could have easily overturned the box and had his fill, yet he either forgot his own strength or remembered his early training; so far, the food was safe in his presence. It also meant they absolutely had to remember The System, or Samson would get Hungry, and Hungry Samson meant an ever-present Samson, a constantly underfoot and drooling Samson, a Samson that would travel to the ends of the Earth to initiate The System and acquire his two scoops of crunchy sustenance. In this, both family and dog were similarly trained.

The System behind him, Kyle again descended the stairs and down to Capital Street, which acted as an artery to Main Street, that he could then follow all the way to Lincoln Way, home of the Wild Eagles. The town wasn't exactly a perfect grid, but everything was a street, not an avenue, or boulevard, or parkway, or even court. Despite this, the townsfolk never betrayed confusion, and Kyle guessed it might be because the total number of streets numbered less than fifty, something an inspired person could memorize in a day or two. Hicksville or not, finding Places of Interest was certainly easier here. Kyle tried running once or twice to avoid arriving late, but found his legs hopelessly fatigued. He wondered idly if he acquired a habit of sleepwalking recently, since he only remembered heading home from school yesterday, doing some homework, and going to bed in anticipation of Friday.

He growled, annoyed at whatever dared to threaten his routine. If his legs didn't rebound by the afternoon, he'd lack enough energy to explore the old cliff everyone called Craig's Hill. That, he decided, would be the epitome of tragedy. His only chance then, involved the bountiful feast his parents so graciously supplied, replenishing his laggard muscles. He'd just have to relax and wait, which was easy to do while trapped behind a series of desks for six hours. Go at night, they said, the view is enthralling. Yeah. Sounds like a good time.