Having incurred grave losses, the battalion, or what remains of it, is now gathered atop this hill, surrounded, dispirited, disoriented, under siege.

Where is Custer? we Speak, we Sing.

We Speakers ask this in a range of American accents being supplied to us by the Mod. The Singers ask this repeatedly, in a melody (the Mod somehow tells us even this) adapted from the main theme of an obscure Italian opera by a composer named Federici.

But there is no answer, no one knows where Custer is; he was last seen an hour ago, on the ridge above, as we embarked upon our ill-fated attack, waving his hat to us, believing us soon to be victorious, riding off to the north with the several companies in his charge.

We wait on Reno Hill all afternoon, in the great heat, desperate for water, being fired upon whenever we move, expecting at any moment to be overrun by these powerful fiends who, having so mastered us, now seem an utterly supernatural force, beyond our power to resist.

And then we become those “fiends,” those Lakota, Arapaho, and Northern Cheyenne, these sons and husbands and brothers, to whom the white devils on the hill no longer appear frightening (as they did in the early moments of the attack, when the sleepy village was caught by surprise) but, instead, pitiful and disgusting; they have traveled far, to kill our children, and when we fought back like men, they panicked, threw down their arms, cried, begged, crawled away.

From all across the village, we begin streaming south to confront them.

We hope we will succeed in killing them all before night.

Mr. U. abruptly shuts us down.

It is a bit of a shock, to be merely ourselves again.

“You are making me very happy,” Mr. U. says.

I raise my hand.

Mr. U. points at me, indicating that I may speak without fear of Penalty.

“How long ago was all of this?” I say.

Mr. U. seems pleased to have been asked.

“Well, what we’ve covered so far?” he says. “Took place on June twenty-fifth, 1876.”

“When is it now?” I say.

He smiles, shakes his head, gives a little laugh.

“I’d say it’s time for some sleep,” he says.

Mr. U. turns off the lights, exits Listening Room.

What we know, what we retain of what we just now knew, floats about in our heads like the dust we made as we rode. In dreams that soon come, we are Lakota, Arapaho, whites, Cheyenne, Crow, moving freely about a room-sized scale model of the battlefield, shouting jokes, racing our mounts, suddenly friends, having forgotten entirely that just now, in the daylight, we desired to obliterate one another.

I wake in the night to find Mrs. U. wheeling over Podium. She slides the mic stand over, Sets her Settings, dons the headphones, sits, leans back.