Dave gives an overview of the book:
Crayola sunsets come from the 64-box, usually. But he only has the simple set, the eight colors, the box relegated to remedial minds and wallets.
But with eight, he displays genius not often seen from even the most precise crayon sharpeners. He doesn't just draw, see, he drips the sunsets across the page, melting the crayons in a teacup, taking a mouthful, and--gazing in awe at the sky, this sky that God or somebody hath wrought--his mouth just drops open. Agape he watches, and the melted colors ooze out of his mouth to the pad below.
And he's only got eight colors because he doesn't know the whining, begging game the other kids play, doesn't know how to play his parents' guilt strings with panache.
Eight's good, he mumbles at the store, mumbling because he doesn't want his mom to see the wax melted behind his front teeth; they look like caps badly brushed.
And the other kids, with their boxes from the era of the politically incorrect, won't let him borrow theirs because they're all afraid of burning flesh; they suspect Jonah, the voodoo boy who drools sunsets prettier than they'll ever know, even if they draw outside the lines. A green horse is the best any of them has done so far, and by God, green's in the eight. Not kelly green, lime green, yellow green, green yellow, but good old, plain old green is, you bet.
And that green horse, as fresh as it is, would be utterly lost in Jonah's eight-color crayola sunset. That green horse would dissolve in beauty before it knew what hit it.