first published in

This piece was written in the style of an Icelandic saga

There came to New York a man named Victor, the son of no one and no one. He was from nowhere. If anyone asked where he was from or who his parents were, that’s all he would say: No one, nowhere. He was quiet and never spoke anything but English. He often said that he only walked forward, never back. In his whole life, he never went voluntarily to a restaurant. Victor was big, but only a youth when he arrived in 1928. He was sixteen, and quick with figures. He found work as an accountant and did calculations in his head that everyone else needed to do by hand. 

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