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I was living in Georgia (not that one, the other one) when I lost my Second Sight. I miss it sometimes – oh, tell the truth, old man, I miss it every day. Still, I don’t really regret it. I’m sure I did the right thing in the end.
Every story needs a hero and a villain, and an innocent that they must fight over. I suppose, as I’m telling this story, I must be the hero. I was going by the name of Polmadi at the time, which means ‘Steel’ in the local tongue. A good strong name, I felt. The innocent was a pock-marked, bright-eyed, smart-mouthed boy, nine years old, called Josef. And the villain was a man I wish I had liked less, a doctor called Edvard, who saved my life when we first met.
I had recently come to Gori, a town that smelled of dust and despair, and I had had a vision
