Henry Simon Patrick Good was an alone sort of boy. He was the kind of boy that you might find cleaning off his goggles with a tissue or staring at the fish tank while the other kids munched on cookies or squirmed and writhed their hands in their air to be called on. He was the kind of boy who kept a collection of chewed bubble gum on a tinfoil pie plate in his closet. He was the kind of boy that others seemed to slowly edge away from, not out of fear or a very clear disgust, but out of a general sense of "he is not like me." And Henry Simon Patrick Good always- ALWAYS- wore goggles.
Simon and Patricia Good were the good kind of parents. Patricia was the good kind of mother who read stories out loud to Henry, even when he was still in the womb, and Simon began to build a two story tree house in the old Oak tree as soon as he learned he would be a good father. They were the good kind of parents who, even when Henry didn't speak a single word, much less a sentence, until the first day of kindergarten, loved him and adored him and said good kinds of things like, "Perhaps he is more of a musician or an artist or an athlete than a talker. We will wait and see."
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