He saved many things throughout his life. It would be unfair to call him a pack rat. None of these things was saved for a rainy day, or just in case; every one was special to him. Some, like the T-shirt with his university's crest on the breast, embodied good times. Others, like his miniature, pewter knights, amused him for hours on end; they were tickets to virgin lands of his mind. Still others, like his Cam Neely rookie card, would be worth something one day; he was sure of it.
It wasn't easy to pick up on his penchant for things when he was younger; every kid wanted the latest Snake Eyes G. I. Joe figure or Easy-Bake oven. That he took care of his toys just meant he was responsible, a good little boy. His tastes narrowed as he got older, and this too helped to hide his love. His music was always organized and rewound (or, later, polished), the edges of his books always crisp, the bindings never cracked. Why? Because he was responsible, of course - an excitable boy, Warren Zevon might've said.
His teenage years were hard, but no one saw how things took the place of people in his life. He had to have something to fill the lonely hours, right? He's just shy. So he continued to save, to organize, and oh the wrath that fell upon anyone who borrowed his things without asking him, or worse, took any less care of them than he did. No one saw. He had a right to do with his private property as he saw fit, didn't he?
All these thoughts flashed through his mind as the heat pressed against his face. It was hard to blink, and the tears dried as quickly as they appeared. The sirens, the voices, the cracking, the snapping and the arms pulling him to his feet, relieving him of his burden, were the river that buoyed these thoughts along. As the ambulance doors closed on the bright scene, he said goodbye to all the things he'd saved, all but one: the one he'd promised to keep and cherish until death, the one truly worth saving.
"She's going to be O.K., Mr. Hammond," said a voice at his side.
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