T: Point is, my mom invented a trick. She drew a door on my bedroom wall. It was a magic door. If I was scared, I could open it, and she’d be right there.
R: Did you open it after she left?
T: She said I could only open it once. Only one time in my life. If I needed her. Only once. So when I was afraid, I always thought, I need to hold out just a little more. A little more. I would think that the next day I might be even more scared or more lonely. And I’d need that door.
R: I would’ve opened it on the first day.
T: I never opened it.
T: Rio, do you remember the door my mother used to draw when I was afraid?
R: Yes, of course.
T: I’m going to enter it.