During my childhood, my family was like a drop, water, and a vast river. Never remaining

in one location for long. We settled in Rhode Island when I was eight, and there we remained

until I went to college in Colorado Springs. Most of my memories were rooted in Rhode Island,

but there are fragments in the attic of my brain which belonged to the various homes

that we lived in, while I was much younger. Most of these memories were unclear, pointless,

chasing after another boy in the backyard of a house in North Carolina, trying to build

a raft to float on the creek behind the apartment we rented in Pennsylvania. There is one set

of memories which remains as clear as glass, as though they were just made yesterday. I

often wonder whether these memories are simply lucid dreams produced by the long sickness

I experienced that spring, but in my heart I know they're real. We were living in a house

just outside the bustling metropolis of New Vineyard Main, population 643. It was a large

structure, especially for a family of three. There were a number of rooms I didn't see

in the five months we resided there. Some ways, there was a way to space, but it was the

only house in the market at the time, at least with an hour's commute of my father's place

work. The day after my fifth birthday, then by my parents alone, I came down with a fever.

The doctor said I had mononucleosis, which meant no rough play, and more fever for at least

three weeks. It was horrible timing to be bedridden. We were in the process of packing our

things to move to Pennsylvania, and most of my things were already packed away in boxes,

leaving my room barren. My mother brought me ginger ale and books several times a day,

and these served the function of being my primary form of entertainment for the next few

weeks. Bordom always loomed just around the corner, waiting to rear its ugly head and

compound my misery. I don't exactly recall how I met Mr. Widemouth. I think it was about

...