He was looking at his childhood bedroom. 1998. The window was open. A hot July wind moved the Spider-Man curtains. And on the floor, sitting cross-legged in front a tiny CRT television, was a younger version of himself—eight years old, holding a SNES controller, playing Street Fighter II .
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The screen flickered. Now it showed a hospital waiting room. His mother’s purse on a plastic chair. A half-finished cup of coffee. A high score table scribbled on a napkin: JEROME - 1 phone call - 0 visits. He was looking at his childhood bedroom