That’s why I spent so long in Africa, railing against various gods, fighting nature to help the thirsty. I always knew I was only one grain of sand in the desert of fate. Just building one well, one cassava irrigation scheme, one water treatment plant, this raised my spirits. Now that I was back in America where people weren’t keeling over from dehydration, my brain automatically locked onto the first needy person who crossed my path. I just couldn’t stop helping. And I saw that Lytton needed my help. He was a poor disenfranchised Native American who had just discovered who his true father was. I didn’t understand why Ford was being so skeptical. Lytton was a carbon copy of him, a Mini Ford, a scarred and hardened biker in a plaid work shirt instead of a leather cut. It was thrilling and stimulating to watch them spar with each other. Their instant hatred of each other was Shakespearean to watch, sibling rivalry at its finest. At the time, all I could see was Ford defending his empire against the intruder.
