**Two Weeks Into the Run**
I was in my dressing room, getting ready for the evening performance, when there was a knock at the door.
"Come in," I called, expecting the stage manager or one of my castmates.
Instead, a woman I didn't recognize entered. She was in her forties, professionally dressed, with the kind of sharp intelligence in her eyes that immediately put me on alert.
"Henry Cavendish?" she asked.
"Yes?"
"My name is Margaret Chen. I'm a talent agent with the London Theatrical Agency." She handed me a business card—which was kind of pointless since I was six and presumably couldn't hire her without parental consent. "I've seen your performance three times now, and I'd very much like to represent you."
*Oh.*
*OH.*
This was happening faster than I'd expected. I'd planned to seek out an agent when I was eight or nine, once I'd built up more of a resume. But apparently, my performance was impressive enough to attract attention now.
"That's very nice," I said carefully, "but I think you should talk to my parents."
"Of course. Are they here?"
"Mum's in the lobby." I opened my dressing room door and called out, "Mum! Someone wants to talk to you!"
Elizabeth appeared, looking curious. When she saw Margaret, her expression shifted to something more guarded.
"Can I help you?"
"Mrs. Cavendish, I'm Margaret Chen, a talent agent. I'd like to discuss representing Henry."
"He's six," Elizabeth said flatly.
"I'm aware. I'm also aware that he's the most talented child actor I've seen in my fifteen years in this business. Mrs. Cavendish, your son is going to have a career in entertainment whether you actively manage it or not. The question is whether you want professional guidance to help him navigate it safely and successfully."
Elizabeth hesitated. I could see her wrestling with competing desires: protect her child versus support his obvious talents.
"What exactly would representation entail?" she asked slowly.
"I would help Henry find appropriate opportunities—auditions for productions that are right for his age and skill level. I would negotiate contracts on his behalf. I would help manage his career trajectory to ensure he doesn't burn out or get exploited. Think of me as a professional ally whose job is to look out for Henry's best interests."
"Can we think about it?" Elizabeth asked.
"Of course. Here's my card. Take all the time you need. But Mrs. Cavendish?" Margaret's expression softened slightly. "I have a daughter Henry's age. I would never represent a child whose parents weren't fully supportive and involved. This would be a partnership, not me taking over. You and your husband would have final say on everything."
After Margaret left, Elizabeth sat down heavily in the chair by my dressing room mirror.
"This is all happening so fast," she murmured.
"Do you think we should work with her?" I asked.
"I don't know. What do you think?"
It was a test, I realized. She was gauging how I felt about all of this.
"I think..." I chose my words carefully. "I think if I'm going to keep doing this, it would be good to have someone who knows how it all works. But only if you and Dad are okay with it."
Elizabeth pulled me into a hug. "When did you get so mature?"
*Approximately thirty-four years ago, give or take,* I thought.
But what I said was, "I learned from you and Dad."
She kissed the top of my head. "We'll talk to your father. But Henry? Promise me something."
"Anything."
"Promise me that the moment this stops being fun, the moment you feel overwhelmed or unhappy, you'll tell us. Fame isn't worth your happiness."
"I promise, Mum."
And I meant it. Because the thing was, I *was* happy. Happier than Marcus Cole had ever been. This life, these opportunities, this family—I was grateful for all of it.
I was just also strategically using it to become the biggest star in entertainment history.
But gratitude and ambition could coexist, right?
---
**One Week Later**
My parents invited Margaret Chen to our house for tea—because apparently, that's how British people conducted all important business.
We sat in our sitting room, Margaret across from my parents while I sat between them on the couch, trying to look like a normal six-year-old and not someone mentally taking notes on contract negotiation.
"Before we discuss anything else," James said, "I need to know: what's your vision for Henry's career?"
"That depends entirely on what Henry wants," Margaret said. "But if I'm being honest? With his level of talent, he could do anything. West End, film, television, music—the whole spectrum. My job would be to help him find opportunities that challenge him artistically while keeping him protected from the darker sides of the industry."
"What darker sides?" Elizabeth asked sharply.
"Exploitation. Overwork. Inappropriate adult attention. The entertainment industry can be wonderful for talented children, but it can also be predatory if you don't have the right safeguards in place."
*She's good,* I thought. *She's hitting all the right notes to make them trust her.*
"How many child clients do you have?" James asked.
"Currently, three. All are working steadily, all are happy, and all their parents have my personal phone number and can call me anytime with concerns."
They talked for another hour about logistics, expectations, and boundaries. Margaret answered every question patiently and professionally. By the end of the meeting, even Elizabeth looked somewhat convinced.
"Can we have a few days to think about it?" James asked.
"Of course." Margaret stood to leave, then paused. "Oh, and Henry? I wanted to tell you personally—your performance is spectacular. Whatever you decide about representation, I hope you continue performing. The world needs more artists like you."
"Thank you," I said, giving her my most winning smile (charisma template: activated).
After she left, my parents looked at each other.
"What do you think?" Elizabeth asked.
"I think she's professional, experienced, and seems genuinely interested in Henry's wellbeing, not just her commission."
"So we hire her?"
"We hire her," James confirmed. "With strict boundaries about what Henry can and can't do."
They both looked at me.
"How do you feel about having an agent, Henry?" Elizabeth asked.
*Like it's the best possible news,* I thought. *Like this is exactly what I needed to accelerate my career trajectory.*
"I think it's good," I said aloud. "If I'm going to keep doing this, I should do it properly, right?"
James smiled. "Spoken like a true professional."
*You have no idea,* I thought.
---
**August 1994**
The show ran for three months before I had to leave. Not because of poor ticket sales—the opposite, actually. The show was extending its run, but I couldn't continue indefinitely. I had school to attend, other opportunities to pursue, and parents who were (wisely) worried about me burning out.
My final performance was bittersweet. I'd genuinely enjoyed the experience—the camaraderie with my castmates, the thrill of performing eight times a week, the feeling of bringing a character to life.
But I was also ready for what came next.
At the cast party after the final show, David Morris pulled me aside.
"You're going to go far, kid," he said, ruffling my hair. "Just promise me something—don't let this business change who you are. Stay kind. Stay humble. The talent will take you far, but character is what makes a legacy."
"I promise," I said, and I meant it.
Because the thing was, Marcus Cole had been desperate and bitter and willing to compromise everything for a chance at fame. But Henry Cavendish didn't have to be. Henry had advantages, opportunities, and a long-term plan.
I could afford to be kind. I could afford to be patient.
I had time.
---
**September 1994**
Margaret came to the house for what she called a "career planning meeting."
"Henry's proven himself on stage," she said, spreading some papers on our dining room table. "Now we need to think about what comes next. I have several opportunities I'd like to discuss."
She listed them out:
1. A supporting role in a BBC children's television show
2. Auditions for the next Royal Shakespeare Company youth production
3. Voice acting work for animated series
4. A potential film role (small, but it would be his film debut)
My parents looked overwhelmed. I looked *excited*.
"The television show would be regular work," Margaret continued. "Two days a week of filming during the school term, more during holidays. Good money, good exposure, and it would establish Henry as a versatile performer."
"What about his education?" Elizabeth asked.
"He'd have a tutor on set for the days he's filming. It's standard for child actors."
"And the film?" James asked.
"It's a small role—maybe five minutes of screen time. But it's a major production with an excellent director. Good for his resume, and film work pays significantly better than theater."
"What do you think, Henry?" James asked.
Everyone looked at me.
This was the moment. I could push for everything, or I could be strategic and choose one or two things that wouldn't overwhelm my parents.
"I think..." I said slowly, "the television show sounds fun. And maybe the film, if it doesn't interfere with the TV filming? But I also want to keep up with my music lessons. And I'd like to spend time with my friends from school sometimes too."
*See? I'm being reasonable. I'm not a workaholic child prodigy. I'm a balanced, well-adjusted six-year-old who just happens to be exceptionally talented.*
Margaret smiled. "That sounds very mature, Henry. The TV show and the film could work together, schedule-wise. And we can make sure you have downtime built into your contracts."
My parents looked relieved.
"Alright," Elizabeth said. "Let's try the television show. If it's too much, we reassess."
"Perfect," Margaret said, making notes. "I'll set up the audition."
After she left, I went to my room and added to my notebook:
**PHASE TWO: IN PROGRESS**
- West End debut: ✓
- Critical acclaim: ✓
- Professional representation: ✓
- Next steps: Television work, film debut, continue training
- Timeline on track for teenage breakthrough
I closed the notebook and looked out my window at London.
*Seven years old soon,* I thought. *Seven years until I'm a teenager. Eleven years until I can really start my music career. Eighteen years until I'm an adult who can make all my own decisions.*
*It seems like forever. But I have knowledge that spans decades. I have patience that comes from living twice.*
*I can wait.*
*And when I'm ready, the world won't know what hit it.*
---
**September 1994 — Age 6, Going on 7**
The BBC Television Centre in White City was exactly as I remembered it from documentaries I'd watched in my previous life—a massive, circular building that looked like a concrete spaceship had crash-landed in West London.
Margaret had briefed me on the show during the car ride over. It was called *The Treehouse Gang*, a children's program about a group of kids who had adventures and learned life lessons. Think *The Famous Five* meets *Grange Hill*, but with a bigger budget and better production values.
"They're looking for a new character to add to the ensemble," Margaret explained. "A younger brother for one of the main characters. He needs to be charming, funny, and able to hold his own with the older kids."
"How old are the older kids?" I asked.
"Nine to twelve."
*Perfect,* I thought. *Old enough to not be annoying, young enough that I won't seem out of place.*
In the waiting room, there were at least fifteen other boys around my age, all with their parents or guardians. Some were clearly veterans—they had that casual confidence of kids who auditioned regularly. Others looked terrified.
I sat calmly between my mother and Margaret, observing everyone with the kind of analytical focus that definitely wasn't normal for a six-year-old.
*That kid in the corner is over-rehearsed—his mum keeps drilling him on lines. That one by the window looks bored, probably dragged here by a stage parent. The redhead is actually reading a book—either genuinely not nervous or an excellent actor.*
"Henry Cavendish?"
Show time.
The audition room contained three people: a director, a casting director, and a woman I didn't recognize but who had "producer" written all over her.
"Hello, Henry," the director said warmly. He was a middle-aged man with kind eyes and the slightly disheveled look of someone who'd been in television long enough to stop caring about perfect hair. "I'm Tom Fletcher. Thanks for coming in today."
"Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Fletcher," I said, giving him the full force of my charisma template—but dialed down to "precocious child" rather than "future superstar."
"I saw you in *Oliver!*," Tom said. "You were wonderful."
"Thank you, sir."
"Today we're going to do a scene where your character, Jamie, is trying to convince his older sister to let him come on an adventure. The sister thinks you're too young, but Jamie knows he can help. Make sense?"
"Yes, sir."
"Great. I'll read the sister's lines. Whenever you're ready."
I took a breath, thought about the character for exactly two seconds (enough time to seem like I was preparing, not long enough to keep them waiting), and launched into the scene.
Here's the thing about acting with knowledge from the future: I knew *exactly* what kind of performance would work for 1990s children's television. I knew the tone, the energy, the slightly exaggerated emotions that read well on camera. I knew how to be funny without being annoying, earnest without being saccharine.
I played Jamie as determined but likable, clever but not insufferable, young but not helpless.
When I finished, there was that particular quality of silence that meant I'd nailed it.
"That was..." Tom paused, exchanging glances with the casting director. "That was really excellent, Henry. Can you do it again, but this time make Jamie a bit more frustrated?"
I did it again. Perfectly adjusted to his note.
"And one more time, but make him more scared that his sister will say no?"
I did it a third time, adding a subtle tremor to my voice and widening my eyes slightly.
Tom sat back in his chair, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Henry, how old are you?"
"Six. Almost seven."
"And how long have you been acting?"
"Um... since *Oliver!* started rehearsals. So about six months?"
The three adults looked at each other with expressions that clearly said, *Is this kid for real?*
"Well," Tom said finally, "thank you for coming in, Henry. We'll be in touch with your agent very soon."
Which, in audition-speak, was basically a job offer.
---
**Two Days Later**
"They want him," Margaret said over the phone, her voice barely containing her excitement. "They want him for the role, and Tom said—and I quote—'Henry Cavendish is the most naturally talented child actor I've worked with in twenty years.'"
My parents were on speakerphone in my father's study. I was pretending to play with Legos on the floor but actually listening to every word.
"What's the commitment?" James asked.
"Filming two days a week during term time, four days a week during holidays. Twelve episodes for the first series, with options for additional series if the show is renewed. It's good money—not enough to retire on, but enough to start a proper trust fund for Henry's future."
*Trust fund is good,* I thought. *But what I really need is investment money. Apple's about to release the PowerPC processor. Amazon is going to IPO in 1997. Google will incorporate in 1998. I need capital.*
"When would filming start?" Elizabeth asked.
"October. So about three weeks from now."
My parents were quiet for a moment.
"Can we have a day to think about it?" James asked.
"Of course. But Tom did say they'd like an answer quickly. Henry was their first choice, but if he's not available, they need to move on to alternatives."
After Margaret hung up, my parents looked at me.
"What do you think, Henry?" Elizabeth asked. "Do you want to do this?"
*Yes, absolutely, one hundred percent yes.*
"I think so," I said carefully. "It sounds fun. And I'd still have time for school and my lessons, right?"
"Yes, but you'd have less time for just being a kid," Elizabeth said. "Less time for playdates and going to the park and all the normal things six-year-olds do."
*Good. Normal six-year-old things are boring.*
"But I'd be doing something I love," I countered. "And you always say that doing what you love is important."
James sighed. "He's got us there, Elizabeth."
"I know," she said, but she didn't look happy about it. "Alright. We'll tell Margaret yes. But Henry, you have to promise to tell us if it gets to be too much."
"I promise."
*Narrator voice: He would not, in fact, tell them if it got to be too much, because for Henry, there was no such thing as "too much" when it came to building his empire.*
—
**October 1994**
The BBC studios were a controlled chaos of cameras, lights, crew members shouting technical jargon, and child actors running around between takes.
*The Treehouse Gang* had four main child actors:
**Sophie** (12, playing the leader)—a girl with auburn hair and the kind of natural authority that made you believe she actually could organize a group of kids on adventures.
**Marcus** (11, playing the technical genius)—a gangly boy with glasses who kept making jokes between takes.
**Nina** (10, playing the athletic one)—a girl who'd apparently been a competitive gymnast before getting into acting.
And **Oliver** (9, playing the artistic one)—a quiet boy who was sketching in a notebook whenever they weren't filming.
And now me, playing Jamie, Oliver's younger brother who desperately wanted to join the group.
"Everyone, this is Henry," Tom announced during the table read. "He's joining us as Jamie. Henry, these are your new castmates."
Four pairs of eyes assessed me with the kind of brutal honesty only children can manage.
"You're really small," Marcus observed.
"I'm six," I said.
"Almost seven," I added automatically.
Sophie smiled. "Don't worry about Marcus. He's always rude to new people. You were really good in *Oliver!* My mum took me to see it."
"Thanks," I said, giving her a genuine smile. Sophie seemed like she could be an ally, and allies were always useful.
"Can you actually act, or are you just cute?" Nina asked bluntly.
*Oh, I like her. Direct. No nonsense.*
"Both," I said with a grin. "But mostly the acting."
Marcus snorted. "He's got jokes. I like him."
Oliver hadn't said anything, just watched me with those quiet, assessing eyes while sketching something in his notebook.
"What are you drawing?" I asked him.
He hesitated, then turned the notebook to show me. It was a remarkably good sketch of the set, complete with all the crew members in the background.
"That's really good," I said, and I meant it. "Do you want to be an artist when you grow up?"
Oliver shrugged. "Maybe. Or maybe a director. I like seeing how everything works together."
*A director,* I thought. *That's interesting. I should remember that. You never know who's going to be important in ten or fifteen years.*
"Alright, everyone," Tom called out. "Let's do a read-through of episode one, scene one. Henry, this is your introduction, so we'll spend some time getting it right."
We settled around the table, and I looked down at my script. I'd already memorized it, of course—all twelve episodes, actually, because Margaret had gotten me the scripts a week ago and I had an adult brain's memory capacity in a child's body.
But I pretended to read along like everyone else.
The scene was simple: Jamie shows up at the treehouse, demanding to be included in whatever adventure the older kids were planning. They try to send him away because he's "too young," but he proves he can be useful.
When it was my turn to read, I gave it full energy—enthusiasm, determination, just a hint of the vulnerability of a younger kid desperate to fit in.
Tom looked impressed. "That was great, Henry. You've really got a handle on Jamie."
"Thanks. He reminds me of me," I said, which was a complete lie but sounded appropriately childlike.
Marcus leaned over. "You memorized your lines already?"
"Kind of?" I said. "I'm good at remembering things."
"Show-off," he said, but he was grinning.
—
**Between Takes**
One thing I'd learned from my previous life in entertainment (even if it was the wrong side of entertainment): relationships matter. The people you work with early in your career could become important later. Directors remembered actors who were professional. Castmates became lifelong friends or useful connections.
So I made a point of being the kind of kid people wanted to work with.
I learned everyone's names—not just the actors, but the crew too. The camera operators, the sound technicians, the assistant directors. I was polite, punctual, and prepared.
During lunch breaks, I sat with my castmates and actually *listened* when they talked about their lives, their interests, their dreams.
Sophie wanted to be a serious actress—Shakespeare, Chekhov, the works.
Marcus thought acting was fun but wanted to be a comedian, "like Rowan Atkinson but funnier."
Nina was already getting scouted for athletic wear commercials and wasn't sure if she wanted to keep acting or focus on gymnastics.
Oliver was the most interesting. He was quiet, observant, always watching how the directors and crew worked.
"I like stories," he told me during one lunch break. "But I think I'd rather tell them than be in them, you know?"
"Like writing?" I asked.
"Or directing. Making the whole thing come together." He looked at me curiously. "What about you? What do you want to do?"
*Dominate every aspect of entertainment, become the most famous performer of my generation, win Oscars and Grammys, and possibly date some of the most beautiful women in Hollywood.*
"I want to do everything," I said. "Acting, singing, maybe dancing. I want to see how much I can do."
Oliver nodded slowly. "You're ambitious."
"Is that bad?"
"No," he said. "But it's unusual for someone our age. Most kids just want to have fun."
*Most kids aren't mentally forty years old,* I thought.
"I have fun doing this stuff," I said, which was true. "It doesn't feel like work."
"Lucky you," Oliver said, but he was smiling.
—
**November 1994**
While *The Treehouse Gang* was filming, Margaret set up an audition for the film role she'd mentioned—a small part in a period drama called *The Winter Garden*.
The film was set in Victorian England and told the story of a wealthy family dealing with scandal and loss. My role would be the youngest son, who had maybe three scenes and a handful of lines.
But it was a *film*. A real, theatrical-release, major-studio film. And I needed it on my resume.
The audition was in a posh office in Soho, and I was up against exactly the kind of competition you'd expect: well-dressed, well-spoken children of actors and industry people.
But I had something they didn't: I knew exactly what kind of performance would work.
The scene was simple—the young son asking his mother why his father was so angry all the time. It required subtlety, genuine emotion, and the ability to be heartbreaking without being maudlin.
I nailed it on the first take.
The director, a woman named Patricia Whitmore (no relation to my piano teacher), actually put down her pen and gave me her full attention.
"How did you do that?" she asked.
"Do what?"
"That thing with your eyes. The way you looked at me like you were actually..." she paused, searching for words. "Like you were actually a Victorian child who didn't understand why his world was falling apart."
*Because I know what it's like to watch your world fall apart,* I thought. *Because I have thirty-four years of emotional experience to draw from.*
"I just imagined how scared I'd be if my dad was angry all the time," I said simply.
Patricia exchanged a look with her assistant. "Henry, would you mind waiting outside for a few minutes?"
Five minutes later, Margaret came out with a massive smile on her face.
"You got it," she said. "You actually got it. They want you for the role."
I allowed myself a moment of genuine excitement. "Really?"
"Really. Filming starts in January. Three weeks of work, mostly on location at a manor house in the Cotswolds. Your parents will need to come with you, obviously."
*Film credit: acquired. Resume: expanding. Plan: on track.*
—
**December 1994**
It was a Saturday afternoon, and I was in my father's study, ostensibly doing homework but actually watching him work on his accounting.
"Dad?" I said.
"Yes, Henry?"
"What's a trust fund?"
He looked up from his papers, surprised. "That's a big question for a seven-year-old. Why do you ask?"
"I heard Margaret talking to Mum about setting one up for me. From the money I'm making from the TV show and the film."
James set down his pen and turned to face me fully. "A trust fund is money that's set aside for your future. We put the money you earn now into an account, and when you're older—usually eighteen or twenty-one—you can access it. It's to make sure that the work you do now benefits future-you."
"Oh." I paused, as if thinking. "Does it just sit there?"
"Not exactly. We invest it so it grows over time."
*Perfect opening.*
"Invest it in what?" I asked, trying to sound like a curious child rather than someone with thirty years of financial foreknowledge.
"Stocks, bonds, mutual funds. Safe, reliable investments that will grow steadily."
*Safe and reliable won't make me a fortune. I need aggressive, strategic investments.*
"Dad, I have an idea," I said slowly. "Can I tell you something, and you promise not to think I'm weird?"
He smiled. "I already think you're weird, son. You're the most unusual seven-year-old I've ever met. But yes, you can tell me anything."
"I think..." I chose my words carefully. "I think we should invest some of my money in computer companies. And internet companies. And maybe that bookstore website that's starting up."
James blinked. "I'm sorry, what?"
"Computer companies," I repeated. "Like Apple. And there's this thing called the internet that's going to be really big, and companies that do internet stuff will probably make a lot of money. And there's a website called Amazon that sells books, and I think it's going to sell lots of other stuff too someday."
My father stared at me like I'd suddenly started speaking Mandarin.
"Henry," he said carefully, "how do you know about the internet?"
*Crap. Seven-year-olds don't know about the internet in 1994. The web browser barely exists. Think fast.*
"Um... Marcus's dad works in technology," I said, name-dropping my castmate. "Marcus talks about it sometimes. About how computers are going to be in everyone's houses and people will use them to talk to each other and buy things."
It was a plausible lie. Just barely plausible.
James was quiet for a long moment.
"You know," he said finally, "that's not actually a terrible idea. Tech stocks are risky, but the potential returns are significant. And you're young enough that you can afford to take some risks with your investment portfolio."
"So we can do it?" I tried not to sound too eager.
"I'll talk to our financial advisor. We'll put most of your money in safe investments, but we can allocate maybe fifteen or twenty percent to some higher-risk technology stocks. If you're right, you'll have a nice nest egg. If you're wrong, you'll still have plenty of money from the safer investments."
*Fifteen to twenty percent isn't enough, but it's a start,* I thought. *I'll have to gradually convince them to increase the percentage over time.*
"Thanks, Dad," I said, giving him a hug.
He hugged me back, but I could feel him looking at me strangely.
"Henry," he said quietly, "sometimes I wonder what goes on in that head of yours."
*You really, really don't want to know,* I thought.
—
**Christmas 1994**
Christmas at the Cavendish house was exactly what you'd expect from a wealthy theatrical family: tastefully decorated tree, classical music playing, thoughtful gifts, and a dinner party with other people from the arts world.
I got books (which I genuinely appreciated), a new bicycle (which I would pretend to be excited about), and—most importantly—my very own keyboard so I could practice piano without monopolizing the family piano.
"So you can work on your music anytime," Elizabeth said, beaming.
"Thank you, Mum!" I hugged her, and my gratitude was genuine. The keyboard would let me start composing, start experimenting with sounds and melodies that I remembered from my previous life.
That night, after everyone had gone to bed, I sat at my new keyboard with headphones on and started playing.
Not children's songs. Not simple exercises.
I played "Bohemian Rhapsody." Then "Imagine." Then "Hallelujah."
Songs that wouldn't be considered classics for years yet. Songs that I remembered from a future these people couldn't imagine.
And as I played, I thought about the plan.
*I'm seven years old. I've got a West End credit, a television show, and a film coming up. I've got professional representation. I'm building a reputation. I'm making money. I'm laying the groundwork.*
*In three years, I'll be ten. Old enough to start recording music. Old enough to be taken seriously as a multi-talent.*
*In six years, I'll be thirteen. Teenager. The voice will have dropped. The sex-appeal template will start activating fully. That's when things get really interesting.*
*In ten years, I'll be seventeen. Ready for adult roles. Ready to launch the music career properly. Ready to start building my empire.*
*And in fifteen years, I'll be twenty-two. The age Marcus Cole was when everything started falling apart. But Henry Cavendish will be at the beginning of his domination.*
*Patience. Strategy. Execution.*
*I can do this.*
I closed the keyboard and looked at my reflection in the window. Even at seven, the templates were obvious. I was beautiful, talented, charismatic. I was everything Marcus Cole had dreamed of being.
And I had thirty years of knowledge to guide me.
*Watch out, world,* I thought. *Henry Cavendish is coming.*
---
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