He watched him play, line up his cars as he always loved to do. First thing in the morning, lining them up on the ottoman in front of the couch. Every morning, like it were his job. That ottoman was his workbench, where he built a world. Dad could only bemuse and admire and envy. And appreciate. This wouldn’t be forever, but he didn’t want to think of it that way. So he just observed, noted, studied further, watch his son construct voices and scenes and situations, all with a simple row of cars. Renewing day-start.