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Names he’d never heard, dates that hadn’t yet come to pass, and places he never knew existed.It was a constant, never-ending stream. A barrage of noise and information overload that he was sure would drive him mad, if he wasn’t already. This was not a good moment in the life of John William Charles Hurst.He was sent to a special home for returning soldiers, that weren’t quite ready to return just yet - or ever, he feared.Then left alone in a room at his own request, something miraculous happened. Control.He didn’t question how or why, but somehow, someway, he’d gained control of the noise in his mind. It was still there - always there - but now he could process, compartmentalize, and have conversations with others without wanting to smash his head on the nearest hard surface.He was healing, he was sure.Until the night he new he’d never be sick again.Nightmares were a constant occurrence, they came with the territory of surviving war. Some nights he could fall back asleep, others, not. By the time I devised this clumsy method, almost all the other kids had left the loading station. I lumbered into the roadway and headed toward Given Avenue, one long block away. Looking ahead, I was horrified to find that, despite all the level streets and flat stretches of land in my neighborhood, I had been given a route that had to be accessed from the loading station by climbing the only hill in sight. And it was a steep climb, rising quickly to a least a twostory height in the course of that one long block of roadway.As I grunted and puffed my way up the hill at a slug's pace, the last two newsboys passed me, one on his motorcycle with its sidecar loaded with newspapers, and the other in a baby blue 1952 Mercury whose broken muffler roared and spewed a thin gray cloud of oily smoke as he passed me and disappeared over the hill.The sun was just rising. The jet black sky had lightened vaguely with the first gray intimations of daybreak. There was no traffic on the streets, no.
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