It all started when I was seven.

That was twenty years ago now.

I was a curious kid, always out exploring our family's land, taking the trek out to

the woods across the grassy fields.

I would collect rocks, watch animals, splash around in the streams I discovered, most of

the time by myself.

I didn't need company.

I never felt lonely, or maybe that was just because I was used to being alone.

My parents owned a farm, a vast, sprawling plot of land that stretched for miles in every direction.

It was beautiful, and the golden sun accented the acres of mint-green corn stalks that lined our backyard.

My father worked hard, spending his days tending the crop with the help of a few farmhands.

My mother took care of the house and the occasional trip to town, stocking up on the essentials.

They were a good team, and they loved each other very much.

They loved the life they shared and depended on one another.

During the school year, my mother or my neighbor would take me and Trevor into town

for my lessons, alternating days.

Trevor was my age and my only friend. During the summers, I didn't

see him much. His own duties grounded him at his parents' farm, eight miles down the dirt road

from us. Occasionally, our parents would get together and share a big country dinner while

Trevor and I wolfed down our food and went out to play.

I was a happy kid, content with my life.

I don't ever remember feeling isolated or any lasting unhappiness.

...