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   After forty-seven years of incarceration here in The Village, I expect they think that I've grown too old for escape. I don’t know how I came to be here, in this Village surrounded by desert for miles and miles in every direction. Two tells me that I must settle down, rid myself of any delusions of “another place, another life.” He told me there is no London, there is only The Village! I remember London like it was yesterday. And because of that they call me a “dreamer,” but I am not the only one, there are others who remember other places, other lives, 554 for instance. The desire for escape has never left me, and after these passed forty-seven years you'd have thought I'd have managed it by now. And yet to wake up here in this Village, I don’t know where I am, or how I came to be here. To be a prisoner of one Village is one thing, but to find myself here, it’s enough to turn a man to drink! But hell, perhaps one more try and give Two a run for his money. The only way out of here must be across the desert. Well you didn't think I'd be the kind of man to settle to a life living in the Old People's Home did you?

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