Parts came from all over the world. He didn’t ask questions about where they were sourced, whose blood was on that bit, why that one was stained a startling shade of yellow. He just nodded politely, and built. And his creation began to take form, an arm and a leg could be seen from the mess of wires at first, then a head (and on it, slowly, a pair of brown eyes, a hooked nose, and an upturned mouth) and a torso and hips (which he clothed, out of politeness to what would be) and feet and knees and hands like Michelangelo's David's hands and hair (which he kept long lest what would be would want to cut it, and couldn’t, and be sad) and finally the small bits, fingernails and eyelashes and soft peach fuzz and on and on. The parts came and he built and he built with care (not something he was asked to do, not even something he was paid enough to do.) And then he built a brain, and added curiosity and insight and knowledge and innocence and regret and stupidity and selfishness (and on and on and though the author may have forgotten some here, you should trust that he did not.) And then he built a heart, and a soul (which needed some parts that I cannot speak of here, in this place, given what I have and do not.) And then he paused and stalled for a moment. And they noticed (the suppliers, grabbers of parts and souls and other such things) and they came and asked why, with feigned politeness, strained smiles. And he could not give them a real answer, so he sat in silence. And he waited a moment. And he turned and smiled to them (a real smile, the realest smile you have never and could have never seen) and he asked them to leave, please and thank you, so he could switch it on. And they nodded, relieved. And he turned back to his creation, and quickly (for there was little time left, no time really left at all) made it boots with solid steel toes, and a warm jacket, and a bag for trinkets to be found and stored in, and a small knife to protect against things that go bump in the night (and much worse, less real things too. It was also for whittling wood and for carving a name in a birch tree and he meant it to be for all these things) and he turned to it, and hurriedly wrote it a note, and put it in the bag. And he made another smaller, green, thing. And he flipped a small switch on its torso and it awoke. And he smiled to the newly born thing, full of possibility and love and care. And he pushed it out the door and while he did he pulled something out of the small green thing with his teeth (he had very good, strong teeth, not like in movies) and he counted to three. And there was light.