"Tyson, dinner."
Tyson ignored her. He added a dab of glue to the plastic fuselage in his hands.
"Tyson!"
"I am working on my model, Mom!" he shouted. He pressed the piece into place and held it there. It would soon be time for the painting.
"Your model can wait. Come downstairs now."
"'Model' means more than one thing." Tyson muttered. "It can also be a projection. A model is the shape of the future." He held the tiny jet and its miniature weaponry tightly. On his desk, his toothpick building was taking on the first resemblance to his house.
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