I am twenty-one years old and I have saved two lives— a girl whose throat closed despite her and a boy who thought he had no other choice. By all accounts, I am a heroine, a savior, some divine-palmed human spread thin among peers who are the same. The same— who fear the dark as fully as I and need the quiet, sometimes, when the din of all the mouths talking at once becomes more heavy than loud. Be gentle, love, approach me slowly— do not touch my shoulder when my eyes turn to glass and know that I hate to be hugged because your arms will trap my fear somewhere within me. I suppose there’s a reason no one writes what happened to Odysseus and how the gods felt after their story ended.