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When I was a child, I had a tomcat that loved sleeping in my bed, and a dog that lived outside and barked at night when demons would come. I wore sneakers, shorts, and a green hat made from a burdock leaf. I broke my neighbors' windows with a slingshot just like the kids from the Hidden Street. I brought home flowers, wild strawberries, pine buds, and shiny stones; I caught butterflies and watched the sun through colored glass fragments. In the summer, I went to the sea with my parents, built sandcastles, swallowed salty water, gathered seashells for my collection, and tanned like a corsair of distant southern seas. My grandmother made me cherry and walnut jams so I’d grow strong, while my grandfather took me treasure-hunting in the forest, telling stories of fairies, gnomes, and giants. I snuck into the locker room to peek at girls, wrote love notes, and went to secret meetings for first kisses. In a few words, I was a boy like any other, meant to grow into a man like any other — one of millions of happy men. Now I only want to know why things didn't turn out that way...