7:30 am Monday. The kid wasn't up yet. "Danny! Get up! You'll be
late for indoc!" No response. My wife was throwing together some
scrambled eggs. Mornings were always hectic. "What was he doing last
night?" she asked. "Went to Mass, I think." "Shit. You'd better go
check on him." I went upstairs. He was in bed, eyes open, glazed,
staring at the ceiling, his patch cord hanging obscenely out of his
pajamas. Great. He always went spacey after Mass Consciousness
meetings. I reached around his neck and rebooted him. Checked my
watch: 7:45. I grabbed my briefcase and ran down the stairs.
"Martha?" I yelled. "What?" "I gotta go, late for work. Program the
kid, will ya?"