Meeting Medusa in the park hadn’t been the best thing that had ever happened to Mike. The shock, the realisation that this was it, the sudden lack of sensation spreading out from his face just slow enough to realise it was happening, just fast enough to do nothing about it. But he’d gotten used to it. He watched the people come and go and live their lives, and he listened to the muffled conversations that vibrated in what had once been his ears when people sat nearby or leaned near him for shade, and he made up stories about the people across the park whose names he never caught. No, it hadn’t been the best thing that had ever happened to Mike but it had a peacefulness to it. He could live with it and even enjoy it and not really wonder about ever going back to how he was. Except maybe to hunt down that bastard who’d stolen his umbrella.