Evening. The campfire. Cats crying in the distance. Julie washing her shirt. Emma ordering her reticule.

Tell me a story, said the Dead Father.

Certainly, said Thomas. One day in a wild place far from the city four men in dark suits with shirts and ties and attache cases containing Uzi submachine guns seized me, saying that I was wrong and had always been wrong and would always be wrong and that they were not going to hurt me. Then they hurt me, first with can openers then with corkscrews. Then, splashing iodine on my several wounds, they sped with me on horseback through the gathering gloom --

Oh! said the Dead Father. A dramatic narrative.

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