When I was seven years old I rode my bike into the path of an oncoming car. Up until that moment, I would have said I was about as happy as a boy could be. It was a summer afternoon and the air – I recall it clearly – was filled with the scent of freshly mown grass and the pleasant stink of irrigation water. The oncoming rigors of school were a looming nightmare that could be ignored for at least another month. My friends and I had been collecting caterpillars and putting them in jars