In those days there was a third man who walked the roads in sunlight and storms. He wasn’t the hero or the villain. He was something else—pliable, glassy-eyed, unpredictable. He pursued the other two men. They had horses and a head start, so he jogged as fast as he could, instinctively, like a bee spiraling into a waiting flower. But no matter how he strained his protesting muscles, the others receded further and further into the hazy distance, and the man began to drown in a gritty, indelible despair that eroded his mind and infected his hot, rushing blood. It was made worse by the fact that he didn’t know what he’d do when he caught up to them. He could join the light man, or the shadowed. If the former, angels might gather around him, mock him in cruel voices. If the latter, he could disintegrate until he became nameless, jellylike, slithering through frigid waters. There was of course a third possibility he refused to think about. But it had no resonance. It was the point of no return. Still, he remembered and forgot it a hundred times a day. It was hard to move in a dead world. Around him the lands lay fallow and there were no more birds. The man had seen books as a child—pictures of stalks laden with bright fruit, sparrows reeling through clear skies, roses without thorns. He thought it must have been a magic spell. A witching the world simply, one day, forgot. This long ago haunted him as his cracked boots hurried over sandy earth, dislodging pebbles, bits of paper, dead roaches. Dry days wept themselves into long black nights and the sun and the moon were the same-sullen, stingy with their light. Even the insects seemed to keep secrets from him. He ate his meals standing up, rubbed away flakes of sunburnt skin, tried to believe he was like lightning, or a spear hurled from a strong, sure hand. One day something new happened. As he jogged around a narrow curve, a lemon-haired girl of eight or nine burst from a hut. The hut was filthy and so was the girl. She sobbed without tears or sound. She raced through the dirt and flung a one-armed doll at a dead tree, as if she’d never loved it, even though she had, the biggest love she’d ever known, since she had no family, only a sour old woman who slapped the girl if she talked too much, especially if she told the truth. A discard, an excess, the girl twined skinny arms around the tree and buried her face in its grizzled trunk. She wore a faded dress and an ankle bracelet. It wasn’t gold, perhaps only tin, worth only a few pennies. But still it glittered and glittered in the relentless light, as if it had its own lively, arrogant soul. Despite her life’s brutal lessons, the girl believed in omens. So when she saw the young man, she scrubbed her face with her fist and yelled, Hey! Hey _you_! The man didn’t turn, so the girl ran to the road. She stopped in front of him, panting. His face curdled at the stench of her hot breath—fish, tooth decay, rotting fruit. But she had canny eyes and a wide, mobile mouth. He couldn’t make a decision. She was an obstacle sent to test his resolve, or she was a fragment of some truth he’d yet to discover. He waited, wondering, for her to speak again. Hey, said the girl again. I’m _talking _to you. Why ain’t you answering back? It’s rude. Ain’t you had no teaching? Please, child, he said. I’m in a hurry. Hurry for what? Ain’t nothing the way you’re going, except that old forest, and nobody goes in there unless they’re stupid or they wanna see the end of the world. You stupid? No, but I will go there if this road does. That is pretty stupid. There’s all kinds of roads in the world. You oughta be more careful choosing. The man studied her. Surely she wasn’t meant for him—she smelled of dried blood, her bones were too big for her skin, and her toenails hadn’t been trimmed in a long time. Pity warred with disgust. He fished a coin from his pocket. Here, he said. Good day to you. The girl knocked the coin to the ground. I don’t want no stupid person’s money. What do you want then? I’m in a hurry. Stupid question. I’m like anybody, want a hundred things God don’t see fit to give. What do _you_ want? I want to catch the men I pursue. I won’t if you don’t move. The girl squinted. I don’t see no men. Is you one of those people can see things in your thoughts? Like a prophet? Mrs. Mallory, she’s who takes care of me, she tells stories about prophets. They’re from long ago but everybody has to listen and do what they say. Because they speak for God. I’m gonna be a prophet when I grow up. You cannot choose such things. Your path is crafted, as it is for us all. That just means God and I can talk to God. Make Him see reason. What’s your name? Mine’s Manny and over there’s my one-armed doll named Isabel. I was crying cause I found out she’s not real. You ever find something you love ain’t real? Of course. That is part of getting older. I ain’t old yet. I shoulda had more time to believe. You ain’t old, neither. Old enough. Get out of my way. Listen, she said, drawing closer. Let me come with you. I hate it here. Don’t nobody really want me. I can show you how to get through the forest. You go alone, the trees might decide they like you, and you’d never come out. But they know me. They’ll listen if I ask a favor. And you can even have Isabel. She’s only got one arm but her smile’s painted on so it never goes away. The young man considered this offer. He swallowed some of the dusty air. He was losing time—he could no longer see the two figures in the distance—and he’d lose more if he stood here arguing. It was true he hadn’t planned for the forest, which had a bad reputation, as perhaps forests always do, no matter time or place. Plus, it was only morning, but already his feet dragged and his mind was too slow and stubborn to help find the right way. I can’t stop you if you follow, he said, surprising himself a little. Manny grinned. She scampered back to the tree, snatched up the doll, and caught up with the man, who had started to jog again. Her legs were much shorter and she took three steps to his one. In this way they devoured the distance, as a bloody sun traveled across a colorless sky. In a strange resonance, they both found themselves thinking of birds. Neither had ever seen a live one. But in both imaginations, small fluttering things soared with impossible grace. Unbound by gravity, unfettered by hope.