Prologue

Failure is the opportunity to start over again more intelligently.
— Henry Ford

Not all those who wander are lost.
— J.R.R. Tolkien, "The Riddle of Strider"

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He exited his shelter to amble over to the campfire that was hemmed in by a circle of misshapen rocks. Ignoring the protest from his stiff back, he crouched down to carefully stir the blaze with a stick kept nearby for this purpose before refueling it enough to keep it going through the night. The fresh branches were soon alight and the immediate surroundings got a little brighter. Embers fluttered about like fireflies before petering out.

This was his fourth night in this forest setting that pretty much resembled any other in this crazed world of Prysmos, with this particular clearing containing the de rigueur carpeting of old twigs and fallen leaves. Nitpicking aside, everything had gone smoothly for him in that duration, which he somehow interpreted as not being challenging enough. As if deliberately living off only anything naturally edible the first two days and fasting entirely on the third was supposed to be easy street. Then again, he did have a reputation for absurd personal expectations. Maybe next time he could just torch all his clothes and go starkers, lose a body part or two, eat something he shouldn't, or willingly become a buffet for insects. Well, as long as they weren't chiggers. Prysmosian blue chiggers, to be exact, named such for their cobalt color and because they were everywhere on the planet. Gods, those little fuckers were the absolute worst. Just two years ago he'd spent several days' leave backpacking in the middle of summer, which included twice passing through a field of tall grass. He returned home to discover forty-plus bites scattered across his legs, waist, and the one spot that couldn't be scratched in public. The itching had lasted to the point that he was ready to consider amputation.

The decent-sized game bird he picked off earlier today, cleaned, and stick-spit roasted to perfection was his first legit meal. He made it a point to hunt sparingly out of the long-held respect that the wild-animal population was not his convenient meat locker. At least he'd finally stopped retching on impact when it came to downing edible creepy crawlies. He remembered reading long ago that roasted crickets were rich in protein and iron. Actually consuming them was another ballgame. They weren't half bad once he got accustomed to the unsettling sensation of crunchy dead bugs in his mouth, combined with the odd flavor of nuts basted in chicken grease.

Though it tasted like a million, he remarkably resisted the urge to shovel all of his avian prize down and elected to save half for tomorrow morning. The fuel would be needed for his departure and the long walk that awaited. While he always appreciated the natural beauty of forests, they were now officially old hat. It was time for something new, namely working to find a clean water source and not having fresh meat readily at his disposal. Until then, he needed to rest up for awhile before mapping out his next itinerary. Hopefully someplace that contained a roof, a real bed, and anything resembling a commode or a bar of soap. And while he nowadays preferred being alone, human interaction hadn't quite yet gone out of vogue.

To the average joe this entire schtick would sound like grounds for committal, but eleven whole months were already in the rearview mirror. It was duly reflected in the beard that resembled a brown tumbleweed attached to his face as the result of growing out unmolested for a year; after all, shaving cream wasn't found in the wild. Just several more weeks and he could finally do away with it. Eh, maybe he would keep the mustache. His little experiment hadn't extended to the top of his head not only because he was never a fan of long hair, but he also didn't want to look like some derelict wizard. Good old manual razor clippers took care of that.

Off-kilter food supply and lack of grooming notwithstanding, he was experiencing a sense of satisfaction that had been missing for literally years, as if he knew at last what he wanted to be when he grew up. By no means, though, was he impervious to the hazards involved. A pistol crossbow was his regular companion, while his hard bow case housed the bigger toys.

Though its intended use was for snaring his nourishment, the pistol was an eighty-pounder* capable of also killing a man, and more than once over the past year a would-be bandit had come close to discovering this firsthand before wisely getting the message. Maybe he was crazy and he would indeed end up meeting his maker before he even made it to forty, but if it was his time, it was his time. He craved the rush of it all like a drug.

Once the fire was sustained, he returned to his lean-to shelter that was life-size in height and width, and pretty much resembled a small-log tent chopped in half. It was out of range enough that he wouldn't roast to death as he slept fully clothed, while the smoke kept the bugs away. A blue tarp covered the log mattress that was perched half a foot off the ground; a secondhand ripstop poncho and tactical pack were his blanket and pillow. Five-star accommodations, it wasn't. The garnet-red knit cap pulled down to just above his eyes gave his noggin some degree of cushioning and warmth. The stuffed pack did little favors for his neck, but he needed to maintain physical contact with it lest it get lost or stolen.

As he wriggled into some semblance of a comfortable position, with his plasticky accoutrements sounding like a round of applause as he moved, something was prodding his backside. He reached underneath and fished out a plain old five-by-seven notebook, its cover scuffed, the spiral binding kinked in several places, and a ballpoint tucked inside like a bookmark. Sitting back upright, he flipped the book open to shake the pen free and came across in the firelight the last words he'd scrawled on the current page that wasn't yet filled with notes: Never go back The worst obsacle cannot be tougher than having 2 relive the past

Lousy spelling and punctuation aside, he'd first heard this little credo way back in his adolescence but now found himself adopting it as something of a crutch that compelled him enough to put it in print. With a cheek-blowing exhale, he swung the book shut with a snap, stuck the pen into the binding and placed it aside, then rubbed his eyes as he lay back down and again maneuvered himself so that he was facing toward the fire. He couldn't see it due to the light pollution, but the sky was crystal clear and full of stars scattered among the multiple moons of various sizes. The air was crisp and clean as always, and contained the same satisfying distant cacophony of (live) cricket chirps. As he stared into the flames' hypnotic dance, his eyes eventually heavied and slowly closed like window shades.

A single tear crawled down his cheek and disappeared into the facial overgrowth. He was already asleep and never felt it.

The murmurs first began at the crowded community pool one baking summer afternoon when the wiry chestnut-haired boy of fourteen decided to call it a day after doing a few laps and then horsing around with buddies. Rather than using the steps to make his exit, he performed an effortless two-footed leap right out of the waist-deep water and onto the cement surface. No hands. As he nonchalantly scooped up his towel and strolled off, whoever had witnessed that — or at least anyone remotely familiar with the laws of physics — was left dumbfounded.

Less than a month later, he was tearing down a city street as if fleeing some unseen menace. A mid-size vehicle made the brilliant decision to stop in the rapidly approaching crosswalk. Whether because it was too late to slow down or simply borne of typical teenage foolishness, the boy elevated a foot away from the curb and then touched down a few seconds later onto the tarmac. The resulting shock absorption was enough that he resembled a frog in keeping his balance and pushing himself back upright, but by the time the driver — one of those middle-aged stiff-upper-lip types — scrambled out so he could get his hands on whoever was responsible for that little stunt, they were a speck in the distance. Did they just jump over the roof of his car? Impossible! A loud honk from behind snapped him out of it.

In keeping with the time-honored tradition of things happening in threes, the youth was spending a recess on a bench with his nose buried in a borrowed comic book when a familiar trio of pain-in-the-ass older classmates decided to start tossing a ball to each other in his vicinity so that it would hit him accidentally-on-purpose, just in attempt to provoke a reaction.

It worked.

He ignored the first time the rubber projectile beaned him, but after the second he seized it without saying a word, stood up, and chucked it away. He couldn't even palm it, but no matter; the ball sailed well over a hundred yards, disappearing outside school grounds never to be seen again. The nearby presence of a supervisor quashed any hopes of retaliation.

Such physical feats from someone his age weren't entirely normal, and perhaps neither was the lack of surprise expressed by the rulers of this particular southern city when the verbal accounts eventually made their way to them.

After all, the boy was their son.

*—The force required to draw back the bowstring.

Thanks so much for reading!