But other truths didn’t need no study at all and snapped into place straight away. That’s how it had been with Proust’s teachings. The first time he had heard the man speak, Sheldon swore he actually heard a click as the words dropped into place just like a perfect half-blind dovetail, the sort of joinery that didn’t need no glue or pegs. Everything the man said rang true, his words set fire to the long-dry shavings of Sheldon’s soul. Proust had said things that Sheldon had felt but lacked the skill to put into words. The man had a way of explaining the whys of stuff. And not just the big whys, like how come mankind was made to suffer, but the little whys, like how it was that Sheldon was alone, penniless, and forgotten by everyone, and all by the slightly overripe age of thirty-four. Proust deciphered the mystery of Sheldon’s two-year stay in a debtors’ prison and the curious riddle of why he was still a virgin. Proust had the answers to everything—all of it true. Sheldon knew this because everything Proust said had landed deep. His words addressed parts of Sheldon buried so far down that he was hardly aware they were part of him. That’s how it was when Proust explained that the first emperor wasn’t elvish at all, that his real name was Novron, and that Novron was the son of God.

After several minutes of silence, during which the shadows stayed in their places, Sheldon debated going for it. This was the dangerous part. If he was being followed or watched, he’d lead the sentinels right to Proust. The best hope for mankind would be exposed and likely destroyed, all because Sheldon was too clumsy and impatient. He forced himself to wait another few minutes.

The sky was clear and what little he could see between stone buildings was filled with stars. Graffiti defaced the buff-colored stone to his left: a circle containing a chevron painted in black. Those symbols were all over the city—marks of the resistance. Sheldon had painted his fair share but wished this one was gone. The tag was too close to home.