From that time on, I spent hours each day thinking of Sam, picturing Sam, and creating stories about Sam. At night I would lie in bed and imagine the places we would go, the things we would see, the dreams we would dream. Sam became my obsession, my passion, my infatuation. .
Pictures of Sam arrived in my mailbox on the first Wednesday of every month. I would race home from school eager to see the latest pictures of my sweet Sam. After poring over each and every picture, I would carefully place them in my small jewelry box.
Christmas money, birthday money, and my allowance all went into a savings account so that one day I would have enough money to bring Sam home. After a year of saving every penny I received, I had one hundred and eight dollars! I eagerly removed the paperwork from its hiding place and began to fill it out. I read and re-read the completed forms twice to make sure I had included the correct information. Once I was certain, I sprinted down the hill to the mailbox and thrust the letter in the slot. As I headed back up the hill towards home, my heart swelled with pride. I could finally rescue Sam.
The following days were agony as I waited, anticipated, and planned. Every day for two weeks I sat at the window and silently urged the mailman to hurry. Finally, on April 15, 1996, the Federal Express truck stopped in front of our house. Before the delivery man had turned off the ignition, I was out the front door and down the driveway.
The delivery man was old, with graying hair, bright blue eyes, and a mustache that curled when he smiled down at me. .
"It's here! It's here!" I cried breathlessly.
"Something special?" he asked as he got out of the truck and handed me a clipboard.
"Really special!" I proclaimed gleefully. .
While I quickly scribbled my name on the clipboard, the delivery man rummaged around in the back of the truck. Just as I finished, he pulled out a large box wrapped in brown paper and covered with stickers that said, "Fragile" and "Handle with Care.
