" Sometimes it astonished him to think how easily he could have died—should have died, any number of times—and yet, improbably, he was still alive. Why? He wanted to tell people, to show them somehow, but he didn’t know how to say it. He didn’t have a family, or a gang, or a corner club to welcome him home. He had no allegiance to anyone except himself. When he was in front of a howling, chanting crowd, in spite of the pandemonium, things became very clear—he had a purpose, a responsibility. He had a name, and it was all that he needed. It belonged to no one else but him. Mrs. "

― , Church of Marvels