IT began with Pudd’nhead Wilson, mugs of hot chocolate, and a round table in the bookstore cafe. We, a group of six siblings ranging from age ten to twenty-four, were in a fiery debate on the merits and shortcomings of Twain’s satirical novel.We had decided to read a work of literature together since there wasn’t much else to do in the sleepy, indifferent midwestern suburb in which we had lived for most of our lives. It was an opportunity to exercise our imagination and pass the time. So we told our parents that we had to go to the Borders bookstore eight minutes away from our house for the 

discussion, as though the hot cocoa dolloped with generous helpings of whipped cream had nothing to do with it. Despite the age difference between us, like Arthur’s knights we sat down at the round cafe table as peers. There was no hierarchy; from fifth-grader to college graduate, we had all read the book, therefore we were equals. We set our novel copies