The Good Spirit looked down upon the earth and kept his noble watch over the tribes of humans below. He cared for their hunger and thirst; he cared for their heart's needs; he cared for their shelter. But the tribes roamed far, and many of them lost themselves, because the Good Spirit, being only one, could not watch all. Though he desired to help all human beings, he could not, and this harmed his nature.

So the Good Spirit, looking down upon the earth, found one—one human—to help him in his work. This one human was much loved and known for his wisdom, and so the Good Spirit besought him and earned his trust and his aid.

Well pleased with this human's assistance, the Good Spirit promised him eternal life.

And the man had lights put at his feet and lights put at his head, so that he may stretch forever across the sky and light the lives of the humans below, for the Good Spirit has made it so.

Simon wanted to see the waitress, again. He couldn't help it. Rarely in his life had he felt moved by another person, and this woman had made him feel strange. Strange in the sense that his heart felt like its edges had turned to glass, as if it had been confined in a fragile box. Simon had never been in love or even felt interested in anyone, and he didn't think this was an exception; it was something else entirely. Love was a foreign concept to Simon. He had lived his life simply and without emotional attachment to anything more than his immediate family, which was what separated him from the other high school students with whom he spent most of his time. People had always been drawn to him and felt comfortable pouring out their feelings and thoughts in his presence, but their ease had never been reciprocated on his end. They never could tell, of course, but it was why Simon was, by most definitions, a recluse. He isolated himself, which was what everyone did to some extent; he knew it was ironic that others found him cathartic when he could find no one with whom he believed he could relate. The dull pain of this irony had been with him his whole life.

He was the youngest of three children, but Simon's brother and sister were both quite a bit older than he was. He had been the unexpected child, conceived when his mother was forty and his father forty-three. Since his brother and sister had been born when their mother was in her twenties, news of Mrs. Hobbs' pregnancy was entirely out of the blue. She'd had a tough time with Simon due to her age and the fact that she'd become somewhat arthritic. Mr. Hobbs had done all he could to ease his wife's pregnancy, but even so, she'd had to go on bed rest in her fifth month and had given birth to Simon prematurely, almost two months before he'd been due. Simon had been sustained in an incubator in the neo-natal intensive care unit of a hospital for the first five weeks of his life. His half-formed lungs had been underdeveloped, and at first, doctors had been unsure if he'd ever be able to breathe on his own at all. He wasn't a healthy thing, that was for sure, and pictures of him during that time revealed an ugly little creature resembling a bony, featherless baby bird more than an infant human being. But Simon had prevailed; he had insisted on living, and once he'd gained enough weight and begun breathing, his parents had taken him home.

They'd treated him like a piece of gold, and yet Simon had not been spoiled. He grew up in a house that was warm and lovely and caring, though he hardly remembered living with his older brother, who had been eighteen years old at his birth. He remembered growing up with his sister for the first six or so years of his life; she had been twelve when he was born, and she had loved him dearly and been a bit of a second mother to him. But tragedy had struck the Hobbs family when Simon was in the second grade. His mother and father had taken their daughter to look at an out-of-state college, and on the way home, their car had been struck by a tractor-trailer that lost control and jumped the median. All three of them had died instantly, and Simon was taken in by his older brother, who had recently gotten married. For some time after the death of his parents and sister, Simon had become withdrawn. His older brother, Steven, sat through many a parent-teacher conference with Simon's elementary and middle school teachers as they expressed their concerns about the boy's quiet demeanor. But as Simon had transitioned into high school, his withdrawal had evolved into a self-awareness that exuded an odd sort of confidence; it became clear that the boy's previous introversion had not been caused by shyness but through his own volition. He had become an observer, one who preferred to listen and study rather than one who felt it necessary to voice the thoughts he had. It was when he hit his teen years that others had begun to feel drawn to him, and that was when he'd suddenly become everybody's friend and confidante. His brother and sister-in-law, who, in the process of raising Simon, had had two children of their own, were wonderful people, and he knew he was fortunate to have a family who cared so much about his well-being. Simon enjoyed living with his two nieces, who were eight and ten; he felt more like their older brother than their uncle. He'd watched them grow up, and he loved them very much. He also considered his brother and sister-in-law his parents, because they had raised him for the majority of his life.

Simon had never caused any trouble for his brother and sister-in-law, beyond his self-imposed silence during his childhood. Soon, he would be graduating high school, and he'd already applied to and been accepted by Corland University. He wouldn't have the money to dorm there; he'd been offered a hefty scholarship that would cover most of his tuition, but because he lived in the area, they weren't going to pay for his housing expenses. That was all right with Simon. He wouldn't have minded living at home with his brother's family. He wasn't one of those high school students who felt he just had to get away from everything. However, he knew that as of recent, his brother had begun having issues with money; Steven had taken a pay cut, and Simon knew it was time he get a job and begin thinking of ways to support himself. He was interested in beginning college, mainly because he was ready to begin working toward a career. Simon was going to go into museum studies. He wanted to spend hours researching ancient artifacts and the people behind their creation. He wanted to delve into the basic origins of human nature that caused the same conflicts and creations to repeat themselves time and time again. Simon felt that the answers to many questions he held deep inside himself could be answered if he was given the time to love and analyze the beautiful and fantastic artifacts humans had conceived since the dawn of his time.

Unfortunately, Simon would have to deal with working at Food Mart to make some money until he could get into the work he really desired. Not that Food Mart was a bad job—it was just a distraction until he could get into something that interested him. He'd only been working the register there for about a week, and the job kept him busy. It was easy to talk lightly with people as they purchased food and household items. Simon didn't mind it. In fact, he sometimes enjoyed it. Despite his inability to feel connected with people, Simon knew they felt connected with him automatically, and he was good at causing customers to smile when he greeted them and made small talk about cabbages and fruit juice. The job was easy and, for the most part, pleasant.

The only aspect of working at Food Mart that was somewhat awkward was being around his co-worker, Will. Simon had known from the first instant he'd seen the man that Will had detested him. Simon wasn't quite certain why. He had always been able to read people; he'd always had almost a sixth sense that enabled him to figure people out just by being around them. This Will guy was a bit different. Simon could guess, to some extent, what he was feeling—it wasn't that which puzzled him. It was the fact that Will, unlike all others, had instinctively hated him. Everyone else Simon knew felt relaxed and happy around him, but Will had quite obviously experienced the opposite. The guy had been agitated for no reason at all, and Simon didn't really understand it.

What he did sense about Will was that the man was troubled, perhaps even unstable. His mannerisms had held a controlled rage; it was as if, while explaining the mundane procedures of working the register and bagging customers' goods, Will had had to do all in his power to restrain his antagonism. It was as if the process of speaking with another person—Simon, in this case—was causing him physical pain. Strangest of all, though, was that Will had become frustrated with him. Simon had done nothing but stand and receive instruction calmly, but Will had, for some reason, shown frustration and resentment and had wanted only to get away. Simon could see the emotions at play, but he couldn't guess their sources. Will was unlike others. He held some real bitterness in him, and it hadn't just been on that one occasion that the bitterness had shown through: the three subsequent run-ins that Simon had had with Will since he'd begun his job had all been exactly the same. Will had done what he could to get away from Simon, and the acrimony he left behind him was as pungent as blue cheese. Simon was unused to such hostility. He wasn't exactly hindered by it—he continued to mildly enjoy his new job—but he felt pained for his fellow employee. There was some reason he was so angry at the world, and even though Simon didn't know what that reason was, he was sure it was unnecessary. People didn't understand how impractical it was to waste time over regrets and grudges. If only Simon could make Will see that . . .

But Will wanted nothing to do with him; that was as clear as glass, and Simon was not one to force his presence on another.

Simon had made some decent money so far from his new job. He was going to begin working and saving to defray the cost of living. His intention was to move out by the time university began in the fall. He hadn't told his brother of this plan, because he was certain Steven would tell him that under no circumstances would he move out on his own. However, Simon knew that realistically, Steven needed the money for his own family, and as much as his brother would argue with him, Simon was sure that being able to support himself would lessen his brother's undeserved burden immensely.

"Didn't I see you in here a few days ago?" came a voice from above, disintegrating his thoughts into a soup that warmed the inside of his head.

Simon looked up, seeing the smiling face of the woman he'd seen several days back, the one who'd given off the impression that she glittered, like a Christmas ornament. "Yeah. I think so," he said, feeling, for the second time in his life, nervous. "I'm surprised you would remember me." What on earth was he saying? He was shocked with his own inability to understand what he was feeling.

The heart-faced woman smiled. "Tea, again?"

He smiled in return, wrapping his long hands around the mug so that his fingers entirely overlapped. Her mouth was like a heart, too. Kind of pinched but not in a bad way. She had large, playful eyes that gave the impression they'd never shed a tear for as long as they'd been on her face. It was a joy Simon sensed coming from her. He felt it the way he felt his brother's financial depression, the way he'd felt anxiety from Audrey when she'd last called him for a ride as he sat at this very café, the way he felt animosity seeping from his co-worker Will at the Food Mart. He could just tell things about people, and he could tell about this woman that she had a winged joy inside her, waiting patiently yet eagerly to soar out and embrace what the world might be holding in store for it. This woman possessed a heart that was happy to be beating; every pump was a trill of anticipation, because it believed wonderful things would be coming its way. To be near this woman was exhilarating, and Simon knew why, now. She took delight in living. She was not bogged down with depression or angst: her heart was light.

He could relax now that he understood. "This flavor is interesting," he commented, speaking of his tea.

She bent over and studied the tag on the tea bag. "Hmm. Oh, yes. Blackberry mint. That's new. I wasn't sure about that one. Is it any good?"

"Mmhm," Simon affirmed. "It's different, but I like it all right."

"I'm glad to hear it. I'll have to give it a try."

She was about to turn away and head back behind the counter, but Simon stopped her with a question. "Can I ask you what your name is?"

The woman looked back at him, subtle surprise at work in her expression. "My name? Oh, it's Eve." She waited as if she expected him to ask something else. When he didn't, she took a step back toward his small table and leaned on it. "Are you going to become a regular here at Toast?"

Simon thought, stretched his mouth out into a line. "I don't know. Maybe."

"Well then, I guess I'd better get your name, too, so I can start greeting you like a regular." She glanced at him, her large eyes lit up from some place most people didn't know the location of, and waited for a reply.

She wasn't going to go anywhere until he gave her an answer, and Simon felt some strange, unanticipated pleasure in getting her to ask for his name. He looked down at his hands, then back up at her. It took a lot of self-control not to let himself feel nervous again. "Simon," he replied quietly. "It's . . . Simon."

Her smile warmed him like a sun ray. "Nice to meet you, Simon," she casually said as she placed her hands in her apron pockets. "I hope you come back and see us again soon." And with that, she turned and walked away.

Simon heard himself breathing all of a sudden, and it seemed ridiculously loud. He was amused. He'd never deemed himself subject to such an emotion as nervousness. He'd always been able to control everything going on inside of him. No—not quite that; it was more that no outside stimulus had ever been able to cross the boundaries he imposed on himself and make any sort of impression on him, thereby causing him to have to exercise self-control. This woman—Eve—was the first person he'd ever come into contact with who had made him feel anything besides pity or empathy. It was because she was unlike others; her reservations were not those of high school students, whose worlds revolved around themselves and their fluctuating sense of self-worth, and they were also not those of the adults he'd known, all of whom had been hampered or, sometimes, even crushed by their disillusionment. Eve was not tainted by anything Simon could guess, and so he was fascinated. Perhaps she was like him, he thought. Maybe she knew how to overlook human nature. And yet, even as Simon thought these things, he knew of the irony that was at work: just as he'd found another person who might possess the ability to comprehend and therefore overcome human nature, he had fallen prey to the very base emotions that plagued every member of the human race.