I am in an outdoor courtyard, playing by myself. I am tracing my fingertips over the mortar between the bricks of the building that is my daycare.
I follow a trail of black ants down, up, over the bricks, until they disappear into a tiny crack in the wall. I pick a booger from my nose and wipe it on the brick wall. Satisfied with the size of the booger and the long smear it made, I dig deeper to try to find an even bigger booger. Success. I take that booger and make a sticky little road for my ant friends.
I try for another booger. I push my finger up, up, up, pull it out and observe my findings. BLOOD! I put my hand on my nose and pull it away. MORE BLOOD! Panic stricken, I scream and run toward the nearest daycare attendant.
Next thing I remember I am being held in the arms of the daycare attendant, inside the building. We are sitting in a rocking chair and I have a tissue stuffed up my nose. I see my mother walking quickly into the room. She is tall, thin, and dressed in her crisp, blue, Coast Guard uniform.
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