They reach the Caprice and open the back door and motion for Simon to enter and he does, ducking his head and sinking into the warm interior. One cop walks around to the trunk and opens it, taking out a yellow garbage bag marked Evidence. He starts down to the lake and over to the dead goose. He lifts it by the feet and drops it in the bag. He scrutinizes the ground for a minute before he finds the head.

He walks back to the car with the bag thrown over his shoulder and puts it in the trunk. Stepping to the passenger side, he knocks his shoes on the sill and climbs in. They pull away from the lake.

Simon looks back and sees more geese landing and swimming back and forth, talking. A society of strangers. More geese swivel in on the nose of a northern wind.

The car turns out onto the Parkway and Simon sees only the long darting necks of the geese as they close over the circle cleared for Simon’s fight.

He shuts his eyes. It’s been a long time since I been here, he thinks. It feels the same. Past the idle cop talk and radio static, past the hum of the tires and the gentle clawing of the heater, he hears the parting of air between the feathers of the geese as they rise and fly to some other distant place.

At the Hennepin County Jail they book him and give him a washcloth and soap to clean the blood off his face.

They lead him down the familiar halls, past still doors into the holding cell.

There are only four others in the cell. Two men play cards. Another is reading a magazine on a bunk covered in a stiff wool blanket. The fourth is curled up against the wall with his back to the others, sleeping. The door slides shut behind him. He stands and looks around the room and touches his nose with his raw index finger. He feels the bones shift but he does not wince.

The card players look up and Simon nods. The reader flips a page with one hand and scratches his chest with the other without glancing at Simon, who walks over to an empty bunk and stretches out on the rough wool.

There are rust and piss stains on the bottom of the sagging mattress above him. He crosses his booted legs and gently puts his arm over his eyes, trying not to touch his nose. He hears the slick of another magazine page and a low sniffle. After a few minutes the sound of cards sliding and snapping resume. They have been looking at him.

The jailer comes with food. The card players throw down their cards lazily and unfold themselves from the chairs.