There will be grassy expanses along the lake bigger than the Old Swede’s Clearing. There will be tall faces of buildings that look like rock cliffs, have been designed that way, he will see now, with pencils and paper, by architects and small, bent city planners. He will never be one of them.

He will slip into the staff room of the enormous lion-guarded building. The outside door will be left open in the back, propped by a worker on the phone in some argument with a friend who stole something from him, a girlfriend or bag of bullion. There will be tanks of fish everywhere in this hollow cliff, along its stairways. The Kid will climb and look at the porpoises and turtles kept in this city building, eels and starfish behind their big mouths, more like gashes with teeth, which look like mistakes, gaps God forgot to fill, but they’re really just mouths, a way to feed themselves, to sustain the life provided. He’ll find an ill-fitting uniform in a locker. He’ll put the costume on, stand inside the big front doors where staff are checking people’s bags for weapons, and dip his hands, all day long, in and out at will.

‌Four

Dog

Crucifixions were once very common. Back in the Holier Lands, the damned were nailed to crosses daily as punishment and pedagogy. Back then, the damned hung until dead, unless the spikes were secured improperly, until the limbs ripped free of the iron and the body fell of its own accord to the sand and dogs. The Baker dreamed of it, the Cooper too. But there are always loopholes. Back then, for example, it was known that if the Master of the Mallet was paid enough, three silver coins on his sill on the morning of the execution, he would swing just so, miss the artery. He would shove the spike artfully between the toes or the webbing of the fingers, draw just enough blood to fool amateurs. “Scream when I swing,” the Master would instruct as he held your wrist to the crosspiece. “Make me look good.” Eyes blinking at the early morning but blazing white sun, the Roman soldiers distracted, digging holes, watching girls. These were robotic men, Bowman explained, with no education, but Saul stopped Bowman in his tracks (again) right there, objecting strenuously to this last characterization of the Roman men-at-arms.

“Alright,” Bowman submitted and passed a fresh roasted turkey leg. “Educated, but stupid nonetheless,” and Saul accepted the addendum wordlessly, his mouth full.

“Brutes,” Dan said.