When I was little, Mom sometimes would pick a chapter book to read at night. Often I fell asleep only to wake up to find her still reading, silently then, and many chapters ahead. One book that stuck with me was about a boy who lived in a house with a doomsday clock in its walls. Kind of creepy reading, but I loved the thrill of fear, and Mom did a great job with the voices. Too good, maybe. The story comes to mind now. That’s me—a man with a doomsday clock in my walls. And every day that I don’t do something, the deadline moves closer and my mood gets darker. I swear, I can almost hear the
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