“It doesn’t matter anyway,” he thought morosely as he labored to push open the front door of his mother’s house. Thomas was surprised at the amount of strength it took to open the front door; he couldn’t remember it being that difficult to open. He hadn’t realize before his rejuvenation what physical rigor it took to move the heavy, white-painted, solid-mahogany door’s inertial mass. As he entered the house, he thought despondently, “By tomorrow I doubt if I’ll even be able to open the door by myself. When I wake up in the morning, I’ll be seven years old and by Friday I’ll be four. If I had met anyone my age today, they’d be too old to want to play ball with me tomorrow.”