Jimmy did not feel ashamed of the change in his thoughts.
In fact, as far back as when he had still been a country child who could not even tell a frog from a toad, he had experienced something similar.
He remembered that back then, the second son of a family in the village had been lucky enough to find a decent job in Newm with a caravan. Every month, he sent plenty of money home, and during festivals, he often brought a few novel trinkets from the big city back for his younger brother.
Even today, many years later, he still remembered that Shorty with two trails of snot hanging from his lips, his face brimming with smugness as he stood on a rock by the pond and showed off the toy his elder brother had brought back from Newm.
Calling it a toy, in the eyes of the Jimmy of today, it had been nothing more than a fairly finely made six-sided die.
At the time, he had not thought it especially pretty either.
At least, it had been nowhere near as pleasing to the eye as the Wooden Sword his father had carved for him.
Nor could he understand at all why a little die the size of a thumb, something that would be impossible to find again if tossed into the grass, could make the companions around him gather around Shorty with such fervor.
Was it simply because it held the special status of having come from Newm?
Only later, as Shorty showed it off again and again in front of everyone, did more and more children gather around him.
Standing in the crowd, watching that six-sided die made of fired clay spin through the air and fall to the ground, striking the gravel with a