His mother turned on him, “No Peter, ‘now‘ is a door. When may be a door, but what if your when has gone? Or is lost so far in your future that you can never catch it? Tomorrow never comes, and some whens never come either.”
Peter thought about this carefully. He knew his mother was right, so he ran to his room, got out his little silver penknife and seized the moment.
He’d intended to cut a hole in it, a little secret gap that only he would know, but his young, unskilled hands whittled it into such a tiny misshapen scrap of time that from then on his mother only ever saw him in brief flickering seconds.