Once there was a boy named Mickey Smith, born around 1982. He was beautiful, and funny, and he tried his best. He was neither a power cell battery nor a tin dog, but he was a mediocre boyfriend, a pretty good Companion, and the second-best Preacher bearing his personal DNA. He took part in the offensive against the Dalek, saved the Doctor's bacon, and was instrumental in the battle of the Age of Steel, and he cowboyed up when necessary, and he always called you home when you got too far out. He gave himself to freedom and disobedience, which you know rates high with me. He never asked the same question more than a thousand times, and he never gave up. His loyalty was legendary and his love was gigantic. He learned to love all rivals, even parallel-world and immortal and fifty-first-century rivals. His love was always greater than his hate, and eventually his bravery was greater than his fear, and that was the day he became a man. Next week: the story of how he died.