He remembers the feeling clearly, he says. In the years since, Eagleman has collected hundreds of stories like his, and they almost all share the same quality: in life-threatening situations, time seems to slow down. He stood there for a few minutes taking in the view-west across desert and subdivision to the city rising in the distance-then walked over the newly laid tar paper to a ledge above the living room. When they’d explored the rooms below, David scrambled up a wooden ladder to the roof. David and his older brother, Joel, had ridden their dirt bikes to a half-finished adobe house about a quarter of a mile away. There were only a few other houses around, scattered among the bunchgrass and the cholla cactus, and a new construction site was the Eagleman boys’ idea of a perfect playground. His family was living outside Albuquerque, in the foothills of the Sandia Mountains. When David Eagleman was eight years old, he fell off a roof and kept on falling. The best example of that is the so-called oddball effect.
“Time is this rubbery thing,” Eagleman said.
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