Getting Pete into actual counseling would be the miracle. Turtle interruptus happened often.

"Okay," he responded to Franklin. He tread carefully to the pantry. He tried to find some barbeque chips without messing up the nice, pink lunch lady's food storage room.

He felt a nervous tremor in his chest and rubbed it. He just wanted to eat. The trembling stopped, and he snatched the bag of chips.

He came scooting out of the pantry. Pete glanced at the cakes. "They look good. Thanks."

If he was polite, the mutants wouldn't eat him, right?