It's 5 minutes until Gordon arrives home, smelling of smoke, alcohol, and cricket matches at the pub, and Arthur has already eaten his first slice of cake. The red 7 has nearly melted and there are splotches of wax around the rest of the cake, some on the little boy's hair and at least the fingertip of his left pinky finger is already blistered and burnt from poking at it.
It takes 4 minutes for Gordon to yell at Carolyn for letting him stay up late, and giving him sugar right before bedtime on a weekday.
It takes another 4 for him to slap Arthur and throw the cake into the kitchen bin. And barely a second for the birthday boy to wail and tell him it was his and that he's stupid.
It takes 2 minutes to beat the child up, but this time it's 7 because he deserves it, and because the world is a bit wobbly for Mr. Shappey tonight and he can't quite see if the hazel eyes are brimming with tears or his knees are weak enough. Much less notice the bloodstain matting his only child's hair.
So it takes much, much less -30 seconds, just 30- to push him aside and let him fall down the stairs, crashing into the wall and staining the horrid, dull yellow wallpaper.
5 minutes is what it takes 11-year-old Arthur Shappey to stop seizing. It was 3 seconds into the seizure that oxygen wouldn't reach his ipsilateral forebrain. And those three seconds make him forget that he's supposed to grow up for the rest of his life.