“Put me down”.

That’s what the little boy said to his mother as she carried him across a field of broken glass and rusty nails. All pulled from the home, time had hoped to fix, only to suddenly realize it wasn’t strong enough to even hammer one more nail.

“But honey you’ll hurt yourself” she answered, hoping to quell the fiery yearning of a boy’s wish to experience something more then white carpet, cleaned with febreeze in his next 33 years of l.i.v.i.n.

“Put me down” he repeated. “Its time.”