Monson was relieved to see many people like himself. These were not the ultra-rich, but regular, clean-cut folks withnormal-looking families and friends coming to see them off as they started on a path toward a hopeful future. This wasa good school, after all, so they should be hopeful. Monson looked again. Hmm . . . there were more scholarship students than he’d expected. That madehim happy, somehow.

  Monson observed the variety of students and families, curious how the different social classes would interact. At leastthat was his inten- tion; the large number of good-looking girls in the crowd made it dif?- cult. After a while, he gave upentirely and looked at the ground.

  Monson wondered what it was going to be like being around this many people—this many girls. This was going to bethe biggest chal- lenge yet, he just knew it, and he so did not feel up to it. Nurses, even hot ones, in a hospital for weeks onend were one thing. Girls his own age were quite another. Right on cue, Molly pointed across the parking lot.

  "Oh, Monson, honey, look at her." Monson gasped.

  "Molly!" He tried to grab her hand. "Don't point! I have to go to school with these people!"

  "Fine," she said, "but look anyway."

  Monson turned to where Molly pointed. A girl was talking animat- edly with a large group of people.

  Molly was right; she is pretty smokin', Monson thought to himself. Her waves of long golden hair were pulled back into adeliberately messy half-ponytail; a pleasing contrast to her perfectly proportioned face. She was strikingly gorgeous. Herfashionable dress boasted social conservatism and attested to the fact that not only did she have money, but she occupied aplace in high society. Her hands never seemed to be out of place. She smiled at exactly the right moments. She moved andgestured with poise and re?nement. She was a proper lady.

  Monson looked her up and down a second time and half-smiled. Despite the lady's forceful appeal to modest precepts,and though the simplicity of her dark silken skirt and pure white blouse left much to the imagination, the ?ow of thematerial as it enveloped a soft and curvy ?gure caught the attention of more than one boy in the parking lot. She would have been even prettier if a nasty sneer wasn't etched onto her features.

  "She's a cute one," Molly said as they pulled into a parking space on the far side of the lot.

  "Is that a question or a statement?" Monson asked, pulling open the door as the car rolled to a stop. "Never mind, itdoesn't have anything to do with me."

  "You stop that right now. I am expecting you to be social at this school," she said, smiling encouragingly. "They’re goingto love you. I mean, how could they not?"

  "Yeah, I wonder!" Monson said sarcastically. "How could they not love me? I'm so freaking lovable."

  "I’m sensing some sarcasm," Molly said, her eyes narrowing slightly.

  "I hope so. I’m laying it on pretty thick."

  She glared at him, though it wasn't convincing; she was trying not to laugh.

  "Anyway, I’ll be right back. Start unloading the car while I go check on something." She strolled toward a building inthe center of the parking lot.

  Grumbling, Monson put his effort into getting the gate of the minivan open but stopped when he noticed his re?ection.He was quite the sight.

  Long, dark, wavy hair hid a once-handsome countenance. Scars, many of them, stretched across his face, vying fordominance with his soft gray eyes, straight nose, and strong jawline. A ?icker of movement in the re?ection caught his eye.Monson pushed his hair out of his eyes and peered closer. He didn’t see anything but his obvious need for a haircut. Hisappearance scared most that made his acquaintance, so he let his hair grow, hoping that it might help to hide his scars. Hewasn't sure this worked; the hair may have just exacerbated the problem. He had experience with such. One night whilestill in the hospital, he scared a new nurse out of her skin when he came up behind her in the middle of the night. The woman's right hook narrowly missed the side of his jaw. He actually had to pin her against thewall before she would listen to him.

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  "You aren't going to hurt me, are you?" He could still remember how her voice quivered with fear.

  "Hurt you?" his reply came back. "You were the one who tried to hit me."

  After a few minutes of explanation, he let go of her. She stared at him.

  "I'm sorry," her voice came. The fear was still prevalent. "I didn't realize who you were."

  "Yeah, I get that a lot."

  "You're the one, aren't you?" Her tone changed. "You're the one from Baroty Bridge."

  "Yeah, that's the rumor, isn't it?" "What's your name?"

  He walked away from her. She called after him.

  "Wait," she pleaded. "Don't go, I didn't . . . mean to offend—" "You didn't offend me."

  "Then why—"

  He turned back to look at her. "I can't tell you what I don't remember."

  He never saw that nurse again.

  It was not a pleasant exchange, but that experience taught him a valuable lesson. His past life, what he knew of it, wasgone. Things were different now. While he had been forced to learn a life lesson, an important one, it was one that wasbetter learned sooner rather than later.

  He remembered his name now, but in many ways he was like a clean slate with bits of himself reappearing on occasion.There was much he could not remember about his life. Pieces of himself still felt lost, and yet he did not suffer fromdepression like many would expect. He didn't know any different; he didn't know what it was like to be treated kindly by strangers, so he didn't bother worrying about it. Now, he worked with the situation that lifepresented to him, careful to notice if he was making anyone uncomfortable, but never backing down because of hisappearance.

  Monson noticed a group of students passing his van. They looked older, probably upperclassmen. Their gazes shiftedover him as if he was part of the landscape, until one of them, a portly girl with frumpy brown hair, stopped to mentallyregister what she was looking at. She grabbed her nearest companion and spun her toward Monson. They looked like theywere going to be sick.

  Monson ignored them and switched his attention back to the van’s gate as he moved mindlessly; his focus was notreally on what he was doing. His thoughts strayed to the blonde girl. She really was a beauty. He might not be able to talkto her, but he could watch. That was more than he was able to do in the hospital, and that was something.

  Monson smiled, pulled out his bags, and stacked them. He wondered idly what his teachers were like and what kind offriends he would make, assuming of course that he made any at all. Monson never had many friends out in the country.Well, maybe he had lots of friends, but he couldn't remember them. No one had visited him in the hospital, so he assumedthat he didn't. It was kind of a depressing thought.

  After ten minutes or so, Monson was able to get his luggage and various belongings from the different locations insidethe van. It was absolutely amazing how much stuff could scatter within the limited space.

  Monson did a quick scan, only to see a long cloth pouch that until then had failed to catch his attention. Monsongrabbed it and was surprised. Whatever was inside was hard, heavy, and from what he could feel through the plushcovering, curiously smooth. A familiar ache tingled in Monson's ?ngers. Excited, he pulled open the pouch and removed ahighly polished stick.

  This was not what Monson had expected.

  The wood was smooth and extremely dense, which led Monson to believe it was probably made of some sort of toughwood, like cherry or oak. At ?rst, Monson thought it was a cane or some forgotten deco- ration, but a slight curve in theconstruction put that theory to rest.

  Monson brought the stick to eye level.

  Around three and a half feet long and two inches in diameter, the stick had a handle that was a fraction thicker than therest of it. It ran straight up for a few inches where it met the blade, then the whole thing curved back slightly as it reachedits tip. The wood was dark and a lot heavier than it looked. Monson took the stick in a double-?sted grip and swung it.

  Strange. This funny stick was . . . was like . . . a sword or some- thing. Thoughts, images, and sensations swept throughhim: the touch of steel, the strain of aching muscles, and the feeling of the elements— ?re, wind, water, and earth. Thesensations vanished as quickly as they arrived, while Monson stared at the wooden sword.

  Fascinating, Monson thought. Now what on earth are you doing here?

  Monson tensed as a sensation prickled his neck. Straining his ears, his only warning was a whoosh before he heardfootsteps directly behind him. He reacted instinctively, raising the polished stick and ?inging it over his shoulder, almostlike a knight grabbing for a shoul- der-slung sword. There was a smack as the wood made contact with some unknownobject. Monson's body again reacted as he arched his back slightly, slid with a ?uid grace, and spun to face his attacker.

  There was a boy standing in front of him holding a stick similar to the one in Monson's hand. He held it in a neutralposition with a thor- oughly shocked look on his face. Monson gave him an appraising look and thought, with a sense ofshock that mirrored the boy’s, that this person couldn't be a student; he could hardly be considered an adoles- cent. Hewas too big, too well-muscled, and had too much facial hair. They continued to gape at each other, neither of them movingor saying a word.