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I was Thomas Edison at age 7. Our house was chilly, wooden floors. I made new pills that worked better. From birchbark. People didn't trust me; I was just a kid. The people I helped believed me.
That horrible man I lived with was not my father. He never smiled. He made her afraid.
One night he went crazy, throwing dishes and murdering my mouse. Smashed him flat under his bootsole. Blood smashed on my face. Something happened to me. He laughed, dared me to hurt him. I threw dishes at him as he circled the table. I had never been so angry or so silent. I wanted to see his face smash. The dishes did not obey physics; he had done something to the air. I knew his time would come soon, and I would see his blood. I could wait.
Meanwhile, we were scheduled for production to start on the aspirin. I had a lot of work to do.