Spent a quarter of … as if a coin tossed in the air, heads or tails, good or evil, a quarter of ... until life became one-sided, non-negotiable, a prison escape movie, an hourglass of sand running down a pant leg. A quarter of ... scarred and scared, concealing a wire hidden in a sleeve, the on/off switch controlled from a trouser pocket. Again, rattle that fatigued metal frame and tunnel deeper into conversation. "You still awake?" Questions work in triplicate form, flipped and recorded. Who's the mole ferreting through facts? Who's the one taking advice through a microscopic ear bud: Ask him if he's the gunman; ask where he buried the bodies. Words become the gravedigger's shovel with reverb, with ringing of metal against rock, of empty shell casings clattering, of momentary truth and anguish. Beyond these walls boots tamp the earth, switchgrass grows, and beyond that— a fraction of what's left, your history, your world—to see it again and walk among its people.