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In June of 1967, I was ten years old and my younger brother, Russell, was twelve. Canada was about to celebrate its Centennial, the Toronto Maple Leafs had won the Stanley Cup for the last time, and Russell decided to kill Satan, the Prince of Darkness and Father of Lies.
It was an unusual day. Saddam Hussein apologized for making all that trouble, the federal government refunded the taxes we'd paid for the last fifty years, and Catholics and Anglicans were getting along. It's just too bad I had to go and break my leg.
The only thing setting Timmy apart from any other active, cheerful ten-year-old boy was the fact that he was dead.
