He was a small guy, compared to the rest of us 5th graders. I remember him looking as if he would physically fit in with the 3rd or 4th grade. His skin was shiny from a day of school and waiting out in the sun for the bus. The mischievousness that kept him in trouble wasn't apparent at that moment. The curving hill that sloped down around the bus stop was teeming with different sections of elementary school kids, each in their own group. This arena-like setting amplified his seriousness. He wasn't often still, even now he was pacing around watching the other kids. Finally, standing with feet planted, facing the multitude, he took in a deep breath and yelled what was on his mind:

"THE LAST OF THE MOHICANS!"

The 5th grade teachers looked puzzled and amused. We were studying this in our literature unit, but it had never provoked this response.

"THE LAST OF THE MOHICANS!" he yelled.

"THE LAST OF THE MOHICANS!" As if it were his last chance to warn his own people.

It was the first time I saw literature deeply impact someone.