“I got your note,” Randy said. “Shrike said something, you quit your job?” “Yeah.” I looked at him, at Vanese, fingers moving in her pockets, picking at something, a cuticle, a sore. Longest at Nakota, scarecrow, my heart’s desire still. Leeched by the force of the days past and to come, pilloried, walled up but still: desire. Who can fathom that, deeper than change, deeper than the Funhole maybe. “Come on,” I said, looking only at her. “You wanna see something, you’re gonna see
