Hed's life took a drastic turn for the worse on September 3rd, 1991. He woke up that morning, not by the sun pushing through the cotton weave in his curtain, but by the breeze, making the cowboys on them gallop on uneven terrain. The curtain was light, and so with much ease it floated up into the air and then back against the window sill, making a quiet snapping sound each time it returned.

He watched this for some time, imagining a giant with unmanaged hair like moss and a long pointed beard, standing outside his window, rounding his large chapped lips and blowing into his room over and over again to awake him.

He spent a few moments trying to free himself of his blanket, a corner of the duvet had become free of the cover and so not only was it knotted on itself but around him as well. He kicked the bottom away from his feet and flailed his arms to get it off his chest. He lay there with his legs spread and his arms as far away from his body as he could manage, without pushing them over the edge of the mattress, relieved from the clutches of his blanket. He got up and walked to the window pushing the curtains away just enough so that he could fit himself between it and the window, to look out.

His dad was outside mowing the lawn that wrapped around the house to where his room overlooked. It was a Sunday, which reminded him of what awaited him at the kitchen table, his mother's pancakes, blueberry or banana-walnut depending on which was closer to going bad. He looked down at his dad for a few more minutes, the breeze felt cool against the damp skin of his stomach. The last few nights had been some of the hottest this summer and every morning he woke up damp with sweat. He watched his father turn off the lawn mower and bend over to pick something up, maybe a stick, or acorn. He threw it over the fence onto the neighbors front lawn. Hed chuckled a little at this. With the lawn mower off, he first noticed the silence and then the high pitched tone of some insect that he kept forgetting to ask his mother about.

As he walked towards his door, noticing the sweet smell of the pan fried cakes for the first time, he caught a glimpse of himself, in the mirror balancing on his dresser. Something had changed in the night, making him notice himself when he normally didn't. He only looked in the mirror if he was getting ready to go somewhere, where he'd have to look presentable according to this mother. So he'd reluctantly stand in front of his mirror wondering how to make himself look presentable. Normally he just patted down the stray hairs but mostly he just looked at his face wondering what else he was supposed to do.

This time however, something had grown on his face. At first he blinked a few times and then opened his eyes wider to make sure he was seeing right, leaning in closer to the mirror. There it was, the moment – he didn't yet realize – that his life would change. In the centre of his chin was a pimple that took up most of it, so large he didn't know how it could have developed over night. He imagined if someone were watching him in his sleep, surely they'd have seen it grow. First the colour of his skin would change, then matter would develop and expand under it and then the skin would stretch around it, all within less than eight hours. He had gotten a few pimples this summer, hardly pimples compared to this crater. They were small bumps on his forehead that his mother said were just sweat rashes, whatever that meant.

He brought his finger up to his chin without thinking and started running his finger around the edge, going around and around in circles. He liked the way it hurt at even the slightest grace of his finger and yet the more he touched it, the more nervous it made him. School was going to start in a few days.

His mother called up from downstairs. He didn't even want her to see it. He went back into bed and pulled the blanket over his head, the duvet now hanging almost half way out of the cover. He didn't mind, mostly because he could care less about the relationship his duvet had with the cover but also because it was cooler and he could make out the sunlight through the fabric over his eyes.

There was a knock at his door. She came in because she thought he'd still be asleep, there had never been a Sunday where he'd let the pancakes get cold. If they weren't hot enough for the butter to melt, he refused to eat them. Understandable, she thought. She sat on his bed gently so she wouldn't wake him up with the movement of the mattress under her weight.

Wake up, little munchkin. Breakfast is ready.

She got up and walked to the window, pushing away the curtains, opening the window a little wider, looking down at her husband who had started mowing again.