The cocker spaniel provided the first clue. It no longer leapt onto the red flyer wagon. It knew the boy would not come by to pull it.
I was that boy. I was an adult now. The dog, somehow, had stayed young, bounding up to me, but no longer bounding up to the wagon.
He did not believe I’d used to the boy. I looked different, smelled different, petted him different. But it was still me. I’ll admit it: I had changed. And not for the better. For what is better than a young boy? A young anything?