Frontal Lobe was on a motorcycle, non-thinking. He wasn’t going to ride it, at least not right now, but this was the wrong time to be wondering about danger when he really just wanted (needed) someone to tell him what to do. Frontal Lobe was sixteen years old and knew nothing yet about right and consequences and wrong. He got distracted and thoughts twisted and drifted to his ex-girlfriend, who last year told him he didn’t understand what would come of his actions. These words didn’t absorb, they flew, in one ear, out the other, over his head, never heard or comprehended. He was considering riding the motorcycle right up to her house and he needed to think about the danger in that decision but all that was in his mind was that she had been inexplicably wrong about him. He was hungry (but not surprised), and thought it would be safer to leap in the truck with that wrinkled sneering man offering him a ride home. Driving, the man asked what kind of teenager would get in a car with a stranger at this time of day and in response he had to explain that, sir, you are right, but I’m just a sixteen year old Frontal Lobe and this is the wrong year for me to be asked what is right and what is wrong.