Rick was looking for his snack. “Did you find it yet,” I said. “Does it look like I found it?” He said. The cowlick on the top of his head was starting to stick out. He did that thing with his eye. He kicked at stones, sending dust and dirt into the air. “Are you going to put those back?” I said. My OCD was starting to kick in. Rick had gotten sidetracked and had meandered into the neighbor’s yard. “I don’t think you would have lost it over there,” I said. “I get going pretty fast sometimes, and with a quick turn it could have flown away and landed way over here. I’m just covering all possibilities, however slim,” he said. I crouched down and held my hand out, made mouse-like noises to mock him. He flapped his arms up and down and shook his wrists like a kid who eye-veins computer crack, and goes into withdrawal when you tell him he has to do something three-dimensional. “Doesn’t that tire you out when you act up like that?” I said. He ran around me in circles, hopping over the pansies then over the bag of potting soil, then over the pansies again. “Do you want some help finding it?” I said. He’d come to rest by the mailbox and appeared to be trying to get air. “The doctor told you that you have exercise-induced asthma, and to choose low aerobic activity like tai chi,” I said. “My legs are too short and (cough), and I’m all upper body. Tai chi would just make my kneecaps pop loose. Plus, I don’t think I could move that slowly without exploding or repressing a desire to control more, which would cancel out any positive effects Tai chi might offer,” he said. He walked down the driveway, crossed the street, and checked the forsythia. “There is no way you lost it down there. You haven’t been over there for a year,” I said. “You never know.” he said.