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something I had done that day.
    â€œHow was your day at school?” he asked.
    â€œGood,” I replied, a mouth full of mashed potatoes.
    â€œTell me three things about your day,” he said.
    I chewed slowly. He stared at me, expressionless. Waiting.
    So I told him about the fecal aerosols. I was reluctant to do it: I expected he would want a discussion about proper hygiene. This had the hallmarks of an opportunity to learn . Instead, he laughed loudly, slapped the kitchen table with his palm, and called it a shitstorm.
    â€œ That should have been the title of the article,” he guffawed to himself.
    â€”
    These were the thoughts that stomped about my mind, like tenants looking for the super. When I surfaced, when I opened my eyes, all three boys were looking at me.
    This happens far more frequently than is safe. Time skips on me. I become lost in thought; I’m pulled into a vortex of exploding ideas and questions. One pediatrician suggested that much of my behaviour could be attributed to sleep deprivation.
    â€œHe could be having microsleeps,” he told my father, as I stared blankly at the wall. “He’s probably having one right now.”
    â€œJesus,” my father said. “That’s just great.”
    I wasn’t microsleeping this time. I stared at the three boys with stains on their jeans, and they stared back at me with expressions mute, uncertain of who I was, what I was doing, why I was standing in the middle of the aisle, holding a lunch tray, staring back at them.
    â€œWhat are you looking at, sport?” Danny Hardwick said, and the air in the room seemed to disappear. I tried to reply: What was I looking at? I was looking at them . My throat constricted and I felt my chest tighten. “What are you looking at, sport?” and I was thinking something I hadn’t thought for a long time.
    I walked into the next room of my mind.
    â€”
    Years before, I wasn’t sure when, I had heard those same words. Now the threads howled at me to connect it to the moment. But I couldn’t make the bridge, which was a problem. I don’t have difficulty connecting to older memories. I don’t forget things. To know someone had said What are you looking at, sport? but not know who said it was highly unusual. It was even concerning.
    It was distressing.
    In my mind, a picture rose before me, a fragment of a memory. This is what I saw: low clouds reflecting the light of a darkening day straight above me, rain falling on my face. A light shining in my eye.
    What are you looking at, sport? said the voice behind the light.
    But the voice was buried down in my mind.
    Here, now, the hubbub of the cafeteria all around me, I stood, digging back to connect the voice to a face. I heard Danny Hardwick snicker, then his friends did the same. He started to say something but stopped. He reached into his pants pocket and took out his vibrating phone.
    â€œDave just got home,” he said to his friends. “He’s got some stuff.”
    â€œLet’s go then,” said the boy with the red hair, and they all stood up.
    As they walked by me, Danny Hardwick gave me a light slap on the cheek.
    â€œTake it easy, Silent Sam,” he said, and his friends laughed.
    I didn’t say anything. My throat was too dry.
    What are you looking at, sport?

WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT, SPORT?
    Listen : Someone said that to me before. Someone looked at me and said, What are you looking at, sport? and they didn’t really care what I was looking at.
    When Danny Hardwick said it to me, I felt a surge of adrenalin, a spike of fear exploding below my lungs. My pulse quickened, my breathing became ragged, and I turned inward, chasing the thread. In a flicker, I was lost to the moment.
    Who said that?
    My mind jumped back in time. I think the principal of Templeton College said it. He said it to me as I stared out the window.
    But that’s not right. He said, What are you looking at,