There was a remote time when long darkness fell, when I fell—I saw snow, and the snow glare dimmed ... some first darkness came over me in something like a fit—it lifted, and soon I was enrolled in the College of Narrators—I don’t trust these words ... A vibrating metal grate in falling asleep behind my eyes behind my face, a vibrating or a shuddering, in and out through fixed stations, blurring or accordioning back into sleep in the dark. Still the weird feeling of being just slightly too warm, not enough to perspire, and my throat is parched.

The next morning I rise and somehow get out of bed without waking my companions. I climb onto a chair and peer out the high window, watch a speckled black and white pigeon fly along the ground with a twig in its beak. A puff of air as I open the window; I try to smell some fresh air but the breeze misses my nose and taps my bare shoulder to say time to go.

*

The rally point, according to my ticket, is supposed to be on the fringe of the commercial area, on the death district side of the river. I’ve looked there repeatedly and found nothing, now I widen my search area. If I don’t report, the Edek will know. They don’t need to find out. They simply know. Once I’ve reported, though—perhaps then.

The day is blinding. I walk through one chimney of light after another. No sign of any rallying. The small oblong square is nearly deserted and the buildings dwindle in number like scattered wooden blocks here, as though they were marching down into the wheat-colored dust and white weeds. A portable office stands at one end of the square, hauled here by aurochs—I can still see their dried-out droppings there underneath. The office is a long narrow box on heavy wooden wheels, the axles at least three feet from the ground. A flimsy wooden stairway leads up to a two-piece door, and there’s a glassless window beside it as well. Under the window, a limp, haphazardly hung army banner slouches from two nails. I collect my breath, walk up to the window and call to the sergeant.

Hollow footsteps sound unhurriedly in the box. A man with a face like crumpled suede and stiff backswept boar bristle black and grey hair appears at the window, then opens the upper half of the door and holds out a hand like a faded old garden glove, looking at something inside the door jam in a manner highly expressive of utter boredom. I put my ticket in his hand and he clumps back into the office. I see the back of his head lower just as he drops out of sight, only then actually looking at my ticket. The time that follows is so empty I can hear the sunlight sprinkling down on me and this square, time ground down to a halt like a clock worn out its spring.