The glass of the bedroom window guarded his world from the wildness outside. There, dirt and germs and all things nasty waited, ready to lunge and bite clean little boys, or so his mother warned. But he’d stand all day and watch the schoolyard across the street at the boys and girls who’d run and play and shout and he’d wonder why his chest hurt. He’d ask his mother and she’d softly close the curtains and sing to him of her love. Later he’d stand once again at the window, his cheek pressed against the glass as his chest ached.