Today the world is gray, with a cold breeze that chills my syntha-derm skin.

I have already made another mistake: I should have worn a jacket.

I am pleased at having gained the experience of regret.

The skies darken and the wind picks up. A drop of water plunks against my cheek. Another drop strikes my face, and then drops fall everywhere. They batter the leaves in the trees. Deep puddles form on the sidewalk. A river flows next to the curb, carrying dead leaves and twigs and candy wrappers. Raindrops splatter off rooftops and darken the pavement. Rain soaks through my clothes. Water seeps through my canvas sneakers, and my socks squelch like sponges with every step.

This is not the first time I have experienced plunking water, but the previous times were all inside, in the shower, which is a water-spraying device used for cleaning purposes.

My circulation pump quickens in my chest. I am learning.

I hear the truck before I see it, an engine roar that tells me something big is coming. It squeals around the corner, bright blue with a shiny grill like gnashing mastication plates. Dirty rainwater sprays from its tires.

The driver is not watching the road. Instead, he examines himself in his rearview mirror, a finger embedded deep inside his left nostril. I have observed this behavior in other humans and understand that he is attempting to remove desiccated mucus fragments from his nose. These fragments are known as boogers.

As the truck thunders on, a black-and-white Chihuahua trots across the street in its path. Its little paws make tiny splashes in the water.

The Chihuahua sees the truck. It freezes.

The driver does not see the Chihuahua.

I do a word problem:

A pickup truck weighing at least three thousand pounds travels at a rate of forty-five miles per hour toward a four-pound Chihuahua. If a boy is standing on the sidewalk at a distance of twelve feet away, does he have time to save the dog?

I run into the road.

I do not calculate the damage to the boy.

My sneakers splash hard on the pavement, wet leaves squishing beneath my feet. Everything around me slows. The chirps of sparrows in the trees draw out to low-pitched moans. The raindrops descend sluggishly to the ground. Maybe my internal clock is buggy.

With a burst of effort, I close the distance and leap in front of the Chihuahua.

What will I learn from this experience? How will this increase my cognitive development?

The truck strikes me and my world goes dark. There is no sound and I am no longer self-aware. Maybe I go offline.