On a morning of a summer day, when Sam was between second and third grades, he woke and especially noticed the light shining outside.
Sun up, fun up, he thought.
So he jumped out of bed, ready for the new day.
Sam wore his shorts, shirt and underwear to bed so he wouldn't waste any time getting dressed. He also was at a stage that some gradeschool boys enter; they wear their underwear to bed under their pajama pants.
He ran down the stairs of his house and went through the front door and was about a third of the way to his family's garage, where he had parked his bike the evening before, when his mother called to him. "Come and eat breakfast!" she said.
Four decades later, as that memory came back to Sam, he didn't remember what happened to him or what he happened upon the rest of that day. He didn't remember if it was a good day, a bad day, or a medium day. He didn't break a limb or wasn't kidnapped then molested by a stranger. But he didn't see a wonderful wild animal or notice a spectacular cloud in the sky.
And as he thought of that day, it was as if it happened the week before.