It is not just us emptily riffing, as usual, on general concepts such as Nautical, such as City. Now we are given facts. Real facts. Which are helpful. In making compelling structure. It is like walking down a tight hallway, constrained on either side by gray walls of fact. It is like stumbling through a desert and suddenly a mist of knowledge rains down composed of the exact details you have been craving but did not previously know you craved.

Mr. U. unfolds the Timeline Chart that came with the Mod, binder-clips it across two music stands. Turns out, he is a whiz at Shaping: at Shaping who Speaks what facts, for how long, and in what order.

What results is like a story.

And even we are more interested.

I am Private Fritz Neubauer, frightened German immigrant, who joined the Seventh Cavalry because I could find no other gainful employment. My boots are the wrong size, and they hurt. My English is poor. I am not sure how to properly load my weapon. Craig is Yellow Dog, a young Lakota teased by his fellows for his good looks, swimming in the Little Bighorn, having stayed up too late dancing last night, making many new friends among the gathered tribes. He has chosen this portion of the river because, just there, beneath the cottonwoods, some young women, Black Leg Doe among them, are gathering wild turnips. She is over there now, frowning, pretending to scour the ground near the far bank, so that Yellow Dog may see her and she may, as she now does, look up, see him, feign surprise, then smile, admitting, by that smile, that her surprise was feigned. They look frankly at each other for a few seconds, after which she turns to rejoin her friends, knowing he is watching her go. Everyone is happy. It is a glorious summer morning, with nothing to be done for the rest of the day.

Lauren is Major Marcus Reno, ordered by Custer to take his battalion and attack the village at its south end. Custer has promised to support him in this. Reno would prefer to stay with the main group. He has never been in a proper Indian fight. But off he rides. When the village comes into sight, the battalion breaks into a gallop. The men whoop. Soon they will be covered in glory. In the distance: white shapes, fragile structures, containing human beings. The aim is to fire into the tents, ride over them, cause a panic, chase down and kill any who flee on foot.

But now a dozen or so Hunkpapas appear, riding back and forth in the path of the advance, raising dust in an attempt to gain the women and children time to escape.