Listen, I was tempted to just copy and paste the write-up from the home page—because, let’s face it, this is already a lot of copy for a website, and there’s a pretty good chance you won’t even read this. But then I thought, “What about the people who actually do?” So, here’s a little extra.

When I was five years old, I went missing for about an hour. Not in a park, not at a mall, but smack dab in the middle of a tiny one-bedroom apartment on a warm Christmas Eve in Honolulu. My family looked in every nook and every cranny and found nothing but panic and dread, and were probably thinking that this is definitely going to be re-enacted someday in some terribly low-budget television program that ends with my face and a 1-800 number. But then, for reasons that cant remember, they decided to look in the bedroom closet just one more time.

And there, in a box, nestled deep within a fairly shallow closet, they saw a tiny foot sticking out of it. For reasons I can neither explain or really remember, I had decided to take a nap in that very box and I had closed the flaps.