He had only one goal now. And it lay, he hoped, about five hundred miles from

here.

 

He was going back to the beginning to get to the end.

 

But the remnants in his head? That previously inaccessible spot?

 

He focused on that.

 

The man was young, not yet twenty. Good-natured. Trusting.

 

That had been his mistake. The trusting part.

 

It was the same old story: a strange man in a strange land. No friends, no

allies, no one to turn to for help.

 

He had come to this place for a better life, as had millions of others.

 

He had not found a better life. He had found a very different man at the end of

the day living inside his body. He knew this and yet could not fully control it.

To change himself back to what he was. He had tried. Over the last year when he

had finally punched through that wall, he had desperately tried to uncurl the

fist. To banish from his mind the desire to maim, wound, or more often kill.

 

But he had made a little progress.