Forget beveling. I was going to have to rely on fracture sequencing.

A skul is designed to house a brain and a very smal quantity of fluid. That’s it. No room for guests.

A bul et to the head sets up a series of events, each of which may be present, absent, or appear in combination with any other.

First, a hole is created. As that happens, fractures starburst outward and wrap the skul . The bul et tunnels through the brain, pushing aside gray matter and creating space where space isn’t meant to be. Intracranial pressure rises, concentric heaving fractures develop perpendicular to the fractures radiating from the entrance, and plates of bone lever outward. If heaving and radiating fractures intersect, blam-o! That section of skul shatters.

Another scenario. No shattering, but the bul et says adios on the far side of the skul . Fractures barrel backward from the exit hole and slam into those hotfooting it around from the entrance hole. Energy dissipates along the preexisting entrance fractures, and the exit fractures go no farther.

Think of it this way. A bul et to the brain imparts energy. That trapped energy has to go somewhere. Like al of us, it looks for the easy out. In a skul that means open sutures or preexisting cracks. Bottom line: fractures created by a bul et’s exit wil not cross fractures created by its entrance. Sort it out and you’ve got sequence.

But sorting out the dead ends requires reconstruction.

There was no getting around it. I’d have to put the pieces back together.

That would take time and patience.

And a lot of glue.

I got out my stainless steel bowls, my sand, and my Elmer’s. Pair by pair I joined fragments and held them until the bonding set. Then I placed the mini-reconstructions upright in the sand, positioned so they’d dry without slippage or distortion.

The lab techs’ boom box went silent.

The windows darkened.

A bel sounded, indicating the house phones had rol ed to night service.

I worked on, selecting, manipulating, gluing, balancing. Silence settled around me, grew loud within the after-hours-big-building emptiness.

When I looked up, the clock said six-twenty.

Why was that wrong?

Ryan was due at my condo at seven!

Flying to the sink, I washed my hands, tore off my lab coat, grabbed my belongings, and bolted.

Outside, a cold rain was fal ing. No. That’s being kind. The stuff was sleet. Icy slush that clung to my jacket and burned my cheeks.

It took ten minutes to hack through the glacier on my windshield, another thirty to make a drive that was normal y fifteen.

When I arrived, Ryan was wal -leaning outside my door, a bag of groceries beside his feet.

There exists some indissoluble law of nature. When encountering Andrew Ryan, I look my worst.

And Ryan looks like something sketched out by a matinee-idol planning committee. Always.

Tonight he wore a bomber jacket, striped woolen muffler, and faded jeans.