You took three steps down from the veranda, walked a few and, then, up another five steps to the elevated vegetable garden in the backyard. If you then walked planks to either of the far corners of the yard, behind the box beds, you’d likely have found him, at his most private. Not a thought of the house, or of anyone in it. He would have been alone in this world, the only one in it. He felt this the only place from which he could navigate his time in this world. You would have found him there immediately after school, trying to think up an experience of his imagining that he wanted to have. He could, when grown, recall only three of those experiences, and more of the last one than the prior two. He had wanted to be dying and have someone come and save him. So, he had thrown himself backward into leafy lettuces, his bed to do the dying in. He tried to imagine who would most naturally come to save him, in an embrace, a holding onto.  Since he was alone in his world, he could think of no one, but still he tried.