“But I don’t know how to use a sword,” Jamey protested as the green man handed him the bright silvery blade.
“He did; the one before you, your ancestor. His cells recorded what he learned; you bear those cells. He battled monsters…
Jamey stood at the top of a green hill. He was six and at school; his teacher had sent him to retrieve a left-behind dodge ball, which he could see, bright yellow, at the far edge of the empty playground. He had started running and running and the wind had caught him or he had caught the wind and for one supreme moment, he was riding the wind: he was flying.
I wasn’tdreaming. Mama tried to make believe that I was; she got mad at me and yelled and yelled and yelled.
His mother yelled at him: put that thing down. Put it down now.Jamey was eight and playing in his room with a stick sword he had made. A lamp lay broken on the floor; he had scratched a long line on the wall. Shards of light were mixed with shards of glass.