॰ ⋄ ♢ PART ONE - THE BOY ♢ ⋄ ॰ My mom used to tell me stories about myself. I remember the old house, a cookie-cutter duplex a mile from town. For her, it was a holding cell, an in-between place before we relocated. But for me, a three and a half foot tall five year old, it was paradise. We had a front yard with room for an immense black cottonwood, a decent swingset, and a copse of spruce, all tied together with a gravel drive that snaked around to the mailboxes. The real

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