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“It was the birthday the boy had chosen for himself, and the sky, as the old man had promised, was clear. They ate breakfast in the twilight of their cellar. The cart the old man had made late at night sat on the table. The boy ate with one hand, his other hand resting on the cart. Occasionally, he paused in eating to move the cart back and forth a few inches, and to imitate the sound of a motor.

"That's a nice truck you've got there, Mister" said the old man. "Bringing animals to the market, are you?

"Brummmaaaa, brummmaaaa. Out of my way! Brummmaaaa. Out of the way of my tank."

"Sorry," sighed the old man, "thought you were a truck. You like it anyway, and that's what counts.”
― Kurt Vonnegut