Once, at volume, in a queue at a grocery store, to a stranger.

What he has, at four, is: a brother called Linus, who was born on his birthday, who was very sick, who died, whose photograph is in the hall.

He is entirely comfortable with all of it in the way that only a child who has never known anything else can be.

What he does not have is the fifty-one hours, or the third of March, or any of it.

He will.