There was another kind of sin, also dizzying. On the back wall of the Willow playground-equipment shed, a child’s red crayon had scribbled two penises (the proper word was), their tips touching. Close by, an older, more knowing hand had incised in a pencil that gouged its lines deep into the yellow-painted wood what looked like a swollen letter M but, on examination, was a naked woman, legs bent at the knee and spread to reveal between them a slit, a pumpkin-seed shape, curls of hair around and above it, and below it a dot that Owen could not name even to himself, in the silence of his head, it was so shameful. Refining his idea, the artist showed between the thighs two breasts with blackened, erect nipples and, between them, what Owen deciphered as the underside of a nose with its two nostrils. The woman was opening herself to be (as older boys said) fucked: that was clear. Why would she do this? That was not clear. Yet it was certain that a woman somewhere had allowed herself to be viewed this way and drawn so that this image could be reproduced here. She had no arms or head and her ankles trailed off without feet; the artist felt that these were inessential. The essential parts of her were depicted, and something stirred below Owen’s belly in acknowledgment that this was true: what mattered most was shown. The slit, the hair, the little dot, and nipples aimed upward like stubby anti-aircraft guns.