Every time I look at the man I think of how misshapen he is, how his head is too big and his gut is too round, how the fat dangles from his arms as if the flesh were pulled from his bones. He is buried where Holder Courtyard now stands. He must show Florence how barbaric the prophet really is. “Should I turn out the lights?” I ask, starting to feel useless.
I look back, just to make sure he’s still there. The houses are made of wood it's true, but each year the city grows, and both thechief administrator and I expect it to have two thousand citizens before very long. He smiles. A failure of memory; a miscommunication.
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