"The name Red is not so easily explained, for my hair was not red, but brown. It started, I think, with my true name, that is, the one my parents gave me, which was Everett. The obvious nickname might have been Rhett, perhaps even for a girl, but it would not sit properly. I developed a daily habit at an early age, however, of robbing my father’s bureau of one of his folded handkerchiefs, soft from a hundred turns in the washtub, and a hundred days riding in his pocket and mopping his brow. Rolled and knotted about my throat on any given day, that kerchief became my trademark, and should my father’s drawer present me with a choice of color, I always favored red. So perhaps, after that, someone who meant to call out my name on some breathless chase through the Pax felt the word turn in its trajectory, mutate, and fall short, only three consolidated letters. And as a name will birth you, I was born, as the color of a mark, of a stain, of an opening where none was expected: Red."