Prologue
Family, Friends Mourn As Boy Killed On Eve of Graduation
By Ingrid Collins
The University of Texas community was rocked by tragedy over the weekend when Samuel Pollard, age twenty-four, died in his apartment the night after finishing his last round of final exams. Authorities are reporting the cause of death as a drug overdo --
CRUNCH!
Sam Pollard took no notice of the crumpled up newspaper report of his death even as he stepped on it. He continued down the sidewalk that led to the Barton Creek Mall, pulling the hood of his bright orange sweatshirt a little further over his head. There was probably no need to hide his face, Sam knew -- he'd never been famous, and the odds that he'd be recognized while shopping were relatively low. Still, Sam prided himself on being informed, on keeping up with the news, and so he knew what had happened to others like him. Better safe than sorry.
Sam looked around at the others approaching the mall, a thrill of paranoia running through him. None of the others were wearing sweatshirts. Of course they weren't -- the summer heat still ruled Texas with an iron fist, which meant that it was ninety degrees outside on a relatively cool day. Everyone else was in short sleeves or tank tops. Crap. Maybe I should have gone with sunglasses or something…
He shuffled through the glass doors into the mall, passing a nail care store to his left and an arcade on his right. The arcade was more to his taste -- he wanted distraction, after all, something to take his mind off of what had happened. But his eyes lit immediately on the newest Resident Evil game, which stood at the entrance to the arcade, and he decided to keep walking. Somehow, shooting zombies just didn't appeal to him right now.
Down the corridor to the right was a man giving a speech from a raised platform. Decent size crowd.
"… what to call them," the man screamed into his megaphone, his words reverberating around the mall. "Organizations like ABLE claim it's important to refer to our supernatural neighbors as 'arcanes.' They say that terms like 'supernatural' or 'paranormal' are demeaning. But we know the truth, don't we?"
"Yeah!" roared the crowd, in unison.
Ouch.
"We in the Salvation Alliance know that such well-intentioned political correctness is dangerous, don't we?"
"Yeah!"
Sam held back a shudder.
"We know that tolerance is the first step toward acceptance, even advocacy of unnatural lifestyles, don't we?"
"Yeah!"
"Right. Not going that way." Sam walked on. He was suddenly cloyingly certain that each patron he passed was staring at him, taking careful notice of his sluggish movements or perhaps seeing his face underneath the hood. Why had he ever thought a hood would hide his features to begin with? Even though he was overdressed, he felt increasingly naked. He was constantly sure that discovery was only a moment away ….
Finally, he found what he was looking for -- the miniatures store. He especially loved the small model robots, loved buying them and spending hours absorbed in the details of painting them. It was a cathartic process, and every completed robot gave him a fresh sense of accomplishment. The discipline and attention to detail required to do it well had proved useful in law school, too.
