“Hey!” said Joseph. “Where’s my breakfast? I got rights, you know. I’m a paying customer.”

But the suit kept asking Joseph questions. “I’m with the Post, sir. Was it a religious experience? Are you a religious man? Where are you from? What was the nature of your relationship with the woman who touched you? Who did you vote for in the last election?”

“I ain’t telling you a thing,” said Joseph. “Ain’t talking to no newspaperman.”

The other suits had zeroed in on Marigold. They cranked their cameras and lit up the cell with their flashbulbs. The bright light didn’t stir her.

“Someone wake her up,” said one suit. “Picture’s no good if she’s sleeping, dumbbell.”

One of the suits flicked a smoldering cigarette butt at Marigold and spoke in a strange accent. “Hey, sweetie. Give us a smile, would ya? One little smile?”

But Marigold was sleeping too hard to be stirred.

“Hey!” Coot shouted. “Get outta here! Leave her alone!”

The men ignored him.

“Sir,” the suit said to Joseph, licking the tip of his pencil. “Did you see any beings, or any bright lights, or hear any strange sounds?”

Coot reached his hands through the bars at the men. He made an attempt to choke any of the suits who came near him. But the suits leapt backward. One man laughed and said, “Whoa, this one’s grumpy.”

“Sheriff! Sheriff!” yelled Coot. “Get these men outta here!”

But the sheriff didn’t appear.

Joseph followed Coot’s lead. He turned from the men in suits and leapt onto his bed, grabbed the bars of his cell window, and hoisted himself up using his arm strength.

Coot marveled at this. Joseph’s upper arms flexed, and his sinewy muscles showed through his old skin. Joseph looked like a man who’d lost five decades from his age. He pressed open the window and hollered, “Sheriff! Get in here, Sheriff!”

“Hurry,” said one of the men. “That old man’s gonna blow our cover.”

“Charlie, I need a picture of her awake.”

“She’s sleeping too hard.”

“Throw something at her, for crying out loud.”

The man in the gray suit tossed wadded paper from the trash basket at her. But Marigold didn’t move.

“Sheriff!” Joseph screamed out the window.

One man finally tossed a book through the bars. The book came crashing down onto Marigold’s chest. Marigold rose from the bed.

“Shoot her!” said one man. “Take the shot!”

A chorus of flashbulbs lit up the cell. She shielded her eyes in the momentary lapse of blue light.

“Move your hand, honey,” said one man, replacing a flashbulb. “Let New York see them pretty eyes.”

“C’mon, doll,” said another. “Smile for old Charlie?”

More flashbulbs.

Then came the onslaught of questions.

“Miss,” said one suit. “Do you consider yourself a messenger from another realm? Are you here to deliver a message to people of this planet?”