It had been five years since the Sentry died. It was a night of fire, of darkness, of death, of trauma and seemingly endless terror that had suddenly flickered out like an extinguished candle, the battle ended. It had been six months since John V. Williams, the homeless art peddler, had turned up in Central Park, doing sketched portraits for food. His long blonde hair framed a gaunt, stubbled face with striking but tired blue eyes, his body was tall and fit in a way that implied he had been strong once before his muscles had withered.

John didn't remember much. He didn't really remember his name, but that was how he introduced himself; it came from a memory somewhere. John Victor Williams, 35 or 36 and probably unmarried, because he had no wedding ring. He had no reason to register, because he couldn't be an Import; he waved to families that walked by and offered free portraits to ones with children. He never really charged, anyway; "If you insist, I'd prefer a sandwich to money," he would say. He didn't want the temptation to spend it on alcohol, because even without his memory he could feel the burning desire of snuffed addiction in the back of his mind.

When he had no customers, sometimes he would draw a woman -- always the same woman -- or he'd cover the paper with graphite and erase a small circle, a single beam of light in a world of darkness.