It's five years since I first met Harold. Formally, anyway. I was his supernatural guardian when he was growing up but he doesn't remember that – he wasn't supposed to. It's not like he led a charmed life or anything – he fell off his bicycle and scraped his knees just like any other kid, but the difference with Harold is that he fell off before the crossroads with the cement mixer passing (though it would have been funny) and took the skin off his knees instead on losing the leg. He didn't see it that way when he found out, a quarter-century later, mind. "Why didn't you save my knees?" he said. You can't tell him it was so he could learn the foolishness of freewheeling down Callow Hill without holding the handlebars.
Should I do something to celebrate, do you think? A cake covered in marzipan with five candles in? Or should I just let the occasion slide past unremarked. It's hard to believe five years have passed since I was first summoned to the attic room of Ada's still wearing the old leather Jacket I'd had in the seventies.
Harold had all these funny ideas about contracts with demons. He had some Faustian concept of demonic pacts and wishes granted and I had to go along with it for his sake. It worked out well enough. I never had to let on he was damned anyway.
All mortals are.