There was a boy who grew up in a home that no longer exists in a town that never was. The boy was a voracious reader and a dreamer of people, places and things that were both magical and mystical. His preschool teachers told his mother that he was precocious and possessed of an incredible imagination. They said that they expected that one day he would become a writer because they couldn’t imagine that a little boy with that kind of imagination would do anything else.

Time passed and the little boy grew into a bigger boy and did things that boys do. He played sports, rode his bike everywhere and impressed his mother with his never ending ability to get dirty and find ways to get into trouble. More than once she found herself completely shaking her head at his uncanny ability to find ways to press her buttons and those of his sisters. He could switch gears on a dime and change from holy terror into a very charming and engaging boy.

None of these things made him special or different from other people.

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