(Returning from (fortunately) temporary dreamer's block, coinciding with my recent Mardi Gras obligations.)

I found a young, blonde boy of about 8 hiding behind the opened door of my fictional bedroom. He said that he had just had a heart attack. Without asking where he lived or who his parents were, I tucked him into my bed, put on a movie, and left the room to ask my friend if 8 year olds can have heart attacks. Later, my mom came by to take me for a ride. She drove (somehow) a plastic mini car wagon, and with my sister already seated behind her, I sat in the back, on top with my arms around her for safety.