Bare with me as I attempt to type on a laptop with a mind of it's own. It has some strange cursor issue and it is pushing me over the edge. My cursor is bouncing from one word to another like a little dancing line. It's beyond irratating.
When Samson was nine years old his father died in a car accident. He knew it was going to happen five days before it did.
"I don't think you should drive to work today," he told his dad, who shrugged off his warning and told him that for such a young lad he had grown up concerns.
"I'll see you later," he said, "We'll have supper just like always."
When his mom got the call later that evening about the accident, Samson didn't wait around for her to break the news. He ran upstairs. He ripped all his motorcross posters off the wall. Pulled the covers off the bed and knocked all of his trophies off his dresser.
He threw himself down on the bed and sobbed. "Why didn't I just hide his keys. I knew he wouldn't listen."
All throughout his childhood, Samson didn't really feel different. He thought everyone knew when the phone was about to ring and who would be on the other line.
He'd heard the word psychic and he'd seen commercials for 900 numbers who said they could predict the callers future for a mean $2.95 a minute.
He thought that was funny because that wasn't really how it worked. Oh sometimes, he'd shake the hand of one of his mom's friends and see something weird, but often times it was a feeling. A dread. A worry.
It didn't take long for him to realize that adults don't pay much mind to the worries of children.
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