He pushed the raisin that had come loose back into his arm. He wished he’d been born a plain old oatmeal biscuit boy. But no, he was oatmeal and raisins.
The raisins kept falling out and he kept putting them back. The other kids at school would pick at them for fun.
Sometimes he thought he would get smaller rather than grow as they picked out so many raisins. Life was hard as biscuit boy.
The summers were the worst: he dreaded the hot weather. He baked stiff and could barely move he was so worried he would snap an arm or leg off.
So he would sit still and not move. But then the real danger happened.
Sitting there, a hard-baked biscuit with raisins, unable to move, unable to say “Don’t eat me! I’m a boy!”