Perhaps they thought that they had killed him, for he lay there very still. Or perhaps it was that they grew tired or ashamed. He never knew.

He lay there, huddled on the pavement, his back against the wall that had not opened to give him refuge. He was alone.

Something, like a dream of mumbling and cursing and receding footsteps, flickered through his consciousness.

He coughed and spat blood.

All right, he said. You tried to kill me. Probably think you did. You made a mistake. You let me live. Whatever your intentions were, don't ever ask me for forgiveness, or for mercy. You made a mistake.

Then he passed out again.

The rain fell gently upon his face. This was what had awakened him. It was into the afternoon of the day, and somehow he had been transported into an alley. He had no memory of having crawled to the place, but then he was certain that no one would have assisted him in achieving it.

Again there was a lapse of consciousness, and when it returned the sky was dark.

He was drenched now, and the rain still fell--or perhaps it had just begun again; he had no way of telling. He licked his lips.

How much time had passed? He drew his chrono near. It was broken, of course. His body insisted, though, that he had endured the ages.

All right.

They had harmed him. They had cursed him.

All right.

He spat and tried to see whether it was blood that mixed with the rainslick.

Do you know who I am?

I came here to help. I _did_ help. If I inadvertently caused some deaths while trying to be of assistance, do you seriously think that this was intentional?

No?

Then why this?

I know.

We do things because we _feel_ that we must. Sometimes we get hooked by our emotions, our humanity--as I did the other day. I probably did infect one or all of the people I was with.