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Matt would later be told that this is what heroin feels like. To be swaddled like a baby, borne with love and acceptance through a world whose savage, lacerating thorns are distant and inconceivable in the numbing blackness. He was just a child at the time, too big for the booster seat, but not quite tall enough for the seatbelt. He was curled up, tucked in as if in between the cracks of the cushions, and although the cool air from the vents surrounded and assaulted with steady gusts, the chills he felt were mere touches, flowing like laughter through and around him. He was covered and protected by a Planets and Rocketships blanket that had been bought for him by some unseen aunt. Blue, orange, purple, the colors of the cartoon universe were illuminated before his eyes by each sweep of a highway light. Matt couldn't see anything over the dashboard except for the twin rows of stars marking the edge of the galactic highway he was flying down. Matt's father was explaining something about the retroreflectors: glass cubes, ninety degrees, headlights, return to sender. But Matt's ears were tuned only to the earnest humming of the wheels of his spacecraft. Having a tumor is no fun. That's what he had learned at the hospital. He used to be afraid of needles, but after being rolled through the dim corridors and stuck at every turn, he had learned to close his eyes and float, numb. With each bump, the drop of drool waggled up and down at the place where his lips met, or slipped off into space, splattering itself on the cushion milliseconds later. He was oblivious to the whole process. They were nearing their destination, the highway had gotten wider and the lights came up to signify that they had reached the end, like at a play or a movie. Soon they would slow to orbital velocity for a cloverleaf loop around Exit 12, and familiar neon signs would float past; Guadalajara's, Valley Corner, Exxon. They would be home, rolling up the gravel driveway, greeted by rustling corn fields and a cacophony of dogs.