Peter shifted in his seat.  His stomach felt knotted and empty, and his legs were restless from their long confinement.

He kept his eyes on Ms. Watson, at the head of the class, but in his fingers the pencil moved swiftly over the paper.  An image of a hotdog took shape.  A slice of pizza, complete with bubbling cheesy crust.  A plate of spagheti with enormous meatballs, a pile of crumbling garlic bread beside it.

His fingers sketched on, almost of their own volition, and his eyes flicked to the clock and back.

The haunting smell of savory food begin to waft about the room.

Soon now, Peter promised his grumbling middle.  Soon.