A human figure walked before her. He, or rather it, was not the same as the Fisherman, nor as a human should be. A festering emptiness in its eyes echoed what should be found in a corpse. But it was not dead, nor ever had been. It lived. It moved with the desire to quench its thirsts rather than to lie down and accept the end—of the world, of humankind, of civilization, of itself. It had red hair. It was taller than she. Soiled, tattered clothes hung from it. Sores spotted its flesh: gashes never bandaged, wounds filled with puss, boils. Injuries along its skin, which could have been healed
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