That is where the story starts, July 1988. The Boy Scouts come down from the mountain, from where my grandparents’ round house was, with its floating attic with the life-size Wil E. Coyote, me drawing on the asphalt, down from mother’s rose garden, it down from the hammock where mother stood, my head on father’s hairy 31-year-old chest. Dad at work, mom cleaning dishes at the sink, me drawing on the pavement (on Sunday mornings, during the fall, I would shuffle down in house shoes through auburn leafs to gather the newspaper before the neon commercials cut back to Pee-Wee’s Playhouse), the boys, boys I had never met, but who knew me because I was me, “That’s [redacted]’s house.” I rushed inside to tell mother of the strange voices emerging from the forest. It was the same forest I looked towards from my little water bed, the frame built by my uncle, in the nook, the reflected rays of the sun upon the moon through the twisted wrought iron bars, my brother Chance in his crib, the jet fighter along its string in the center of the room like a Julie Taymor film, moving images of which my childhood best friend’s father posted to this forum. When I got scared, during a thunder storm, my parents in the lofted space of the A-frame, I would sneak into the bathroom by myself, where I could control the light, age 3, in my little space, with my little switch, by myself, with no one to rely on.