During this time, David had a lot of time to think about what mattered to him.
After dying, David knew what really mattered, spending time with friends, family, and doing what you love. For him that meant track, for him, that meant sprinting.
If he could take a route that would never require him to join the rat race, then he would, so in this life, he would passively buy bitcoin once rudimentary crypto exchanges are born, and diversify for quick returns in American businesses he knew would print money.
That way he could alleviate 2 problems before he even reached his 20s;
1. His socioeconomic background
2. Life getting in the way of his biggest dream.
For now, though, none of that mattered. He was four.
The television played quietly in the background of the living room, the familiar hum of the broadcast blending with the occasional sounds from outside the estate. David sat on the carpet a short distance from the screen, legs folded beneath him, completely focused.
His mother sat on the sofa behind him, half-watching, half-resting after a long day. The Olympics had been on for most of the evening, cycling through different events, but this was the one that had kept David still.
The 100 meters.
The heats were on.
Athletes stepped into their blocks, the camera cutting between them as commentators filled the silence with analysis. Names flashed briefly on the screen, some familiar, some already forgotten by most viewers.
David didn't care about most of them.
He was waiting for one.
The gun went, and the runners pushed out. Even through the screen, even at his age, he could see the differences. Some got out quickly but rose too early, others stayed low but looked tight, forcing their steps. It wasn't something he could fully explain yet, but he could feel when something looked off.
Then the camera switched to another heat.
Lane two.
David leaned forward slightly without realising it.
His mother noticed the shift. "You like this one, yeah?" she asked casually.
"Yeah," David replied, eyes still locked on the screen.
The runner stepped forward, shaking out his arms, loose, almost relaxed compared to the others. There was no visible tension, no stiffness in his shoulders or neck. He looked like he was enjoying it, spinning around and dancing leisurely.
His mother tilted her head slightly. "They all look the same to me," she said. "Just a bunch of men running."
David shook his head. "They're not."
She smiled faintly at that, but didn't press him.
The athletes got into their blocks.
"On your marks."
They settled.
"Set."
Stillness.
Then the gun.
They exploded forward, but one stood out immediately. Not because he started the fastest, but because of what came after. His steps opened up sooner, his stride lengthened without looking forced, and within seconds he was already separating.
He pushed to 20m then literally started to jog, clearly only at maybe 70% effort as he looked left and right, his ease and relaxed nature made the rest of the field seem likely amateurs on the world stage.
His jogging against their sprinting and yet he was in front, and they were behind. David watched closely, his focus narrowing, there it was again.
"Look at the way he just opens and up and leaves them almost standing still, 10.20 into a minor headwind, this young buck is making serious waves and he's still got 3 more rounds to go!" One of the commentators said.
"Yes, with a world record in his 3rd time not just competing in the 100m this season, but ever, we're not talking about a Gold chase but a beginning of a potentially dominant legacy for an athlete better known for the 200m." Another added.
By the time they crossed the line, the result was clear.
His mother leaned forward slightly, more interested now. "Alright," she said, "who's going to win it then?"
David didn't hesitate.
"Bolt."
She repeated the name, unfamiliar with it. "Bolt?"
He pointed at the screen as the replay showed him again, jogging back, relaxed, barely out of breath compared to the others.
"That one."
She watched for a moment, studying him. "He doesn't even look tired."
"He's not," David said simply.
She gave a small laugh. "It's just the heats, isn't it? They're not going full out yet."
David shook his head again, still watching the replay. "He'll win."
There was a pause, then he added, "World record."
That got her attention.
She looked down at him properly this time. "World record? In this one?"
"In the final," David said.
She leaned back into the sofa, a small smile on her face, not dismissive but not convinced either. "That's a big call," she said. "You sure about that?"
David didn't answer straight away.
He kept watching the screen, replay after replay of the same run. The way his stride opened up. The way he carried himself. The lack of strain, even as he pulled away.
He didn't need to see more.
"Yeah," he said eventually "And he will make it clear there's more to give".
There was no excitement in his voice, no attempt to sound impressive.
Just certainty.
His mother watched him for another moment, then shook her head lightly, amused. "Alright," she said. "We'll see."
The broadcast moved on to the next heat, and David watched as the big names that would write history in an almost unmatchable manner dominated their heats too.
2008 wasn't a normal year, whether that's the financial crises or what's commonly known in sport as the changing of the guard, this was a soft one as Maurice Greene had already been replaced by Justin Gatlin, Tyson Gay, and Asafa Powell with similar transfers being done in the 200m for Michael Johnson including Usain Bolt.
But Bolt made 2008 special for creating a minor guard change all by himself this year, and how he did it would go on to influence millions across the world like David for decades.
David glanced down at his hands briefly. Small, still developing, nowhere near capable of anything close to what he was watching from the slowest losers let alone the household names.
But that didn't bother him, he had time. More importantly, he had direction.
The television continued in the background, his mother occasionally reacting to something on screen, but for David, the moment had already passed.