Dany's parents told him to never go into the basement. I was over at his place the first

time he tried to open that thick dark oak door. I remember who was 7 at the time I think,

him flashing me that cheeky, lopsided smile before standing on his tiptoes and straining

for the handle. I remember his dad snatching him away a second later and slamming him back

down next to me with a force that brought tears into Dany's eyes. Mr. Johnson was a very big man,

and although I'd known him all my life, he'd always been a slight source of fear for me.

As I grow older, this infantile nervousness around him subsided little, but he always made me wary.

Mr. Johnson knelt, gripping Dany's shoulders, his face was red with anger, but he also looked

shaken. I noticed he was trembling almost as much as his son. Listen to me, Dany,

his voice cut like a knife. You never, ever open that door. Do you understand me? Never.

I've told you before and I'll tell you again, under no circumstances do you go in there.

Then he bundled his snippling son into a tight hug before inviting us to come watch cartoons.

Afterwards, I'd asked Dany what was behind the door. He had told me in a round about way

that it was his basement. He seemed only half interested in the conversation,

always distracted by the tingle of an ice cream truck or an interesting stick.

Dany's cellist imagination could take anything innocuous, anything every day and turn it into

something extraordinary. Sometimes I thought he'd actually see the things he dreamed up.

Dany and I had always been friends. We were never really given a choice in the matter.

Our families neighbored each other directly and our parents had known each other since college.

They just heaped the infant Dany and I together and waited for a bond to grow.

And there was a bond in the simplest sense. We were best friends. We were always together in the

same class as school in the same scale group. We even docked in and out of each other's homes

...