All around him were voices. They laughed at him, taunted him . . . because he was different. Never mind that they were unique themselves. Each person had his or her own individual scent, something that he used to identify them. One scent in particular was what he was looking for. But he couldn't find it, the trail having long since gone cold. Frightened, the small child continued his way through the crowd, calling for the one person he knew would save him.

She never came. She would never come again. She had died a long time ago. The small child collapsed to the ground, tears stinging his eyes. Another small voice had diminished.