The previous day’s events were fresh in his mind, and the cacaphony that went with them was ringing in his ears.  The thumps from upstairs increased in intensity and frequency.  Soon, his cousins would rush downstairs, some arguing, all on their respective trajectories.  Adventures had yet to be plotted and executed.  Grudges had yet to be avenged.  Toys, yet to be squabbled over, despite parental injunctions To Share (Dammit).

He walked over to the Dutch Door that separated the living room from the sun room.  The lower half swung open with a creak, and he padded out to the porch.  It was slightly overcast, and a chill rode the periodic gusts of wind that the slightly-open windows admitted.  He liked the chill, and the gray that went with it.  His mother had always thought it depressing, but for him, it was a source — and often, one of his only sources — of calm.  The gray meant time to think, time to stay indoors.  It subdued the often manic energy that accompanied the sunnier days.  He sometimes wondered if that energy wasn’t a strange kind of panic — we have to have all of our fun now!  It’s only nine more days until school starts again!  Perhaps it was just he who felt that way.

Panic.  Back then, it was not a word he he had used often, if at all.  He had of course felt it; on days when he was late for school, waiting for his mother to appear, keys in hand, to give him a ride, it was there, a lump in his stomach that evolved into what felt like a fist punching him from the inside.

PleasemomineedtogettoschoolifimlateagainillgetintroubleandeverybodywilllookatmewheniwalkinandtheylllaughtheyalwayslaughwhydoyoumakemewearthisstupidoutfitnoonedresseslikethisHURRYUPHURRYUPHURRYUP!

He shoved that thought, that frequent memory, from his mind — from the front of his mind, into one of the hundreds (thousands, if one with the requisite ability were actually counting) of cubbyholes into which Things That Troubled him co-mingled with the Things He Didn’t  Understand.