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Let's see - you're seven years old and you live in this big old house with your aunt, who loves you, you guess. You don't have a mom and dad because they're gone (in the accident, you think, but you don't know that, not for sure), and sometimes you're still sad. There's a crack in your wall and that crack scares you. At first you wait for it to disappear just the way scratches and bruises heal on you. You're seven years old and you think that everything must heal one day.
When your aunt kisses you goodnight you always ask her to leave the lights on. Because that crack talks to you and in the moonlight it seems more visible. But your aunt smiles, pats your hair and says that you have great imagination. And that you're seven years old and that's old enough to sleep without lights on. So you just lie there with your eyes open, squeezing your blanket, listening to the voice (prisoner Zero has escaped, who's prisoner Zero, for beads and beavers?). And you wait for the voice to go silent. Or to fall asleep.
Then you know that the crack won't disappear just like that so you put bandaids with ladybugs on the crack. Your aunt shouts at you for this, because bandaids ruin the blue paint and she tells you to remove them. You listen to your aunt, but you wait for the day when someone (anyone) will notice the crack being not good. The crack being bad.
Then you kneel by the bed and pray to the Santa Claus because you're sick of waiting. And Santa's the one to make wishes come true, so your wish may have a chance. Then, a little blue box falls from the sky, and from the box a strange man falls out. He claims to be a doctor. He walks into a tree and tosses sandwiches around, and you feel you like him a lot. And that the waiting's over, because he's the anyone to take care of the crack.
And then the Doctor says he'll be back in five minutes, because his blue box will explode and it will be better for it not to. He says to trust him, but you trust him already, he's so twisted in a funny way. You think that you can wait another five minutes; what's five minutes against seven years. So you smile when he jumps down the little blue box, screaming something with a madman's joy.
You pack up the most necessary things, you put the coat and a cap on (you're seven years old and you know what to take and wear), you run to the garden and you wait again.
You wait twelve years (and visit four psychiatrists), and then another two.
And then you realize that for him maybe ten minutes passed.