The summer of 1998 tasted like dusty asphalt and Blue Raspberry. For Leo and his younger brother, Toby, the ultimate status symbol wasn’t a bicycle or a video game; it was the translucent, plastic cylinder of a Push Pop.

Unlike a regular lollipop, a Push Pop could survive a fall if the cap was on.

Leo pushed his Strawberry cylinder up, the bright red sugar gem catching the sunlight. He took a satisfied lick. Toby unsealed the Mystery. It was a swirling, neon purple and green. He took a brave bite. His face contorted. His eyes watered. "Is it... sour?" Leo asked.

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On this particular Saturday, the shelf was nearly bare. Only two remained: a solitary Watermelon and a Mystery Flavor. "I want the Mystery," Toby whispered, reaching out.

Every Saturday, their grandfather would hand them each a single, crinkly five-dollar bill. It was their "adventure fund," meant for the corner store at the edge of the neighborhood.