The son of a friend of my brother returns from the park with a blister. He has blonde hair cut into the shape of a pudding bowl and is close to tears. He is four years-old. His mother, a plaster and some chocolate cake resolve the issue.
He sits on the sofa and shows us a book of his recent adventures on the subway. One trip involved seven transfers in an hour and a half. He takes us through each one. He knows the metro map by heart and gives detailed itineraries for any journey that is suggested to him. He happily corrects his mother.
I ask him his middle name and he gives me an answer without question before going back to the metro map to study some of the more obscure intersections.
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