The blood pours from his chest like holy water from a sacred spring. I press my palm to the wound, bathing my skin in that liquid warmth, and blood coats my hand like a scarlet glove. He believes I am trying to help him, and a brief spark of gratitude lights his eyes. Most likely this man has not received much charity in his short life; how ironic that I should be mistaken as the face of mercy.

Behind me, boots shuffle and voices bark commands: “Back! Everyone get back!”

Someone grasps my shirt and hauls me to my feet. I am shoved backward, away from the dying man. Dust swirls and the air is thick with shouts and curses as we are herded into a corner. The instrument of death, the shiv, lies abandoned on the ground. The guards demand answers, but no one saw anything, no one knows anything.

No one ever does.

In the chaos of that yard, I stand slightly apart from the other prisoners, who have always shunned me. I raise my hand, still dripping with the dead man’s blood, and inhale its smooth and metallic fragrance. Just by its scent, I know it is young blood, drawn from young flesh.

The other prisoners stare at me, and edge even farther away. They know I am different; they have always sensed it. As brutal as these men are, they are leery of me, because they understand who-and what-I am. I search their faces, seeking my blood brother among them. One of my kind. I do not see him, not here, even in this house of monstrous men.

But he does exist. I know I am not the only one of my kind who walks this earth.

Somewhere, there is another. And he waits for me.

ONE

Already the flies were swarming. Four hours on the hot pavement of South Boston had baked the pulverized flesh, releasing the chemical equivalent of a dinner bell, and the air was alive with buzzing flies.