In the glittering moments of that noisy evening that would never be still the Cuban regretted not killing the hitchhiker for his own safety. The hitchhiker stumbled back towards the light cradling his face and feeling the oozing substance of his youth splattered over his clothes. He knew he was marked. The scar of his physical weakness would be with him forever. He could not return to anyone he had known after that. His only recourse was to cover it with the wise growth of a beard shared by so many prophets. He did not want that, he wanted to live young forever until the moment he died. Everything he had done in his life had ensured his destiny until he had been given a new one by a man whose name he would never know.
The hitchhiker stroked his scar three times, a habit of reflection. He
