Let the record state that there was something impressively abnormal about the Janitor’s childhood.  From perhaps his third to ninth year he was what we might call a sensory prodigy.  The ability to see through walls, read letters through envelopes, books through their covers.  Fence and play ping-pong blindfolded, find things that were buried, read thoughts. 

While night may be a blindfold to the rest of us the janitor’s got a kind of sight the sun doesn’t set on.  While our polite little houses sown in neat little rows may be a pair of blinders for all, he can see through it still.  The type of man who could look over our tiny little world of tarred roofs, tarred roads and smoking bricks and see something amiss.

anything amiss . . .