Frankie wanted to fly, wanted to fly so badly that he could taste it. It was the only thing he wanted to do. He thought about it all the time; during class when he was supposed to be paying attention, during dinner when he was supposed to be eating, and in the shower, when he was supposed to be washing his hair. Frankie’s blank stare into space soon became his trademark look and occurred so frequently that Mr. and Mrs. Frankie’s parents became very concerned that their child might be otherwise damaged in the head. They took him to several doctors, who, despite commenting on Frankie’s obsession with flying, found nothing mentally wrong with the boy.

His parents did the best they could for a child who was going through a rough time in his life, tried to supplement his inability to fly with posters and toys and planes that hung from the ceiling and flew circles around his bedroom. They had a hard time deciding what the best course of action was, whether to bombard their son with images of the very thing he desired or to shield him from the reality that other things in the world could very much fly. Back and forth they went, sometimes arguing well into the night. Frankie would wake up one morning to find all his toys gone and his walls bare. A few days later, it would all magically reappear.