[i]	Basil had never thought of himself as one who needed to be protected; of course, there had been his parents, but they had always taught him to how to be independent, self-sustaining. His mother educated him on history, as she insisted that it was necessary to know everything of the past in order to not repeat the same mistakes, and when those lessons had been finished for the day, they moved onto medicine. Then he "studied" with his father, working with the machines because his fingers were smaller and could fit easier into the crevices; of course, his father never had him to do anything particularly risky, and risky his job was, but when he was called to repair a radio, juke box, or any other mundane object, Basil was there and eager to be of use.
	He knew how to survive on his own. His mother had made sure of that, as if she'd predicted that she'd die when her son was a mere child. No one else in the town--excluding his father and Doc Thurston--knew more about science, machinery, and medicine than him. If he were to be left alone, to his own devices and in the hands of the world, then he'd know how to make something of himself.
	But the one thing that his parents had never taught him was how to defend himself. How could he ever save the world, as he'd stupidly promised his mother years ago, when he couldn't even defend himself from it?
	"Why did you help me?" he asked the familiar stranger. He didn't know the older boy's name, only that he sometimes ran errands for the people at the market. He also recognized him from the weekly distribution of water rations. Other than that, though, he knew nothing of the person who had suddenly decided to save him; there was no detail for his analysis. Perhaps he expected something in return? Did he need money? Food? No, water; it was always for the water.
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