It happened in a second, an insignificant tap of his fingertip against the thin, silky ribbon. A misstep, a split second when his grip loosened. And then the red balloon rose, slowly at first, like a dream stretching in a slumber of hope, and then faster, inexorably, higher than his outstretched hand could ever reach. His mouth hung open in a silent cry, his eyes two wide pools of bewilderment. The ribbon fluttered again, as if challenging him, mocking him. And something unfamiliar grew in his chest—a gaping hole of loss, of incomprehension, of desolation. As if a piece of his inner world, something red and light, was being torn away and carried away by something greater than himself. People walked by, their shoulders shrugged, their gazes level, oblivious to the global catastrophe unfolding in his young universe. They saw a little boy, standing still, stiff, staring upward as if he had just witnessed an otherworldly injustice. But in his mind, the bells of betrayal thundered. That was his balloon. His. He had chosen him. He had given him a name. And now life showed how arbitrarily it takes everything away.