7:30 am Monday. The kid wasn't up yet. "Danny! Get up! You'll be late for indoc!" No response. My wife was throwing together some scrambled eggs. Mornings were always hectic. "What was he doing last night?" she asked. "Went to Mass, I think." "Shit. You'd better go check on him." I went upstairs. He was in bed, eyes open, glazed, staring at the ceiling, his patch cord hanging obscenely out of his pajamas. Great. He always went spacey after Mass Consciousness meetings. I reached around his neck and rebooted him. Checked my watch: 7:45. I grabbed my briefcase and ran down the stairs. "Martha?" I yelled. "What?" "I gotta go, late for work. Program the kid, will ya?"