Good Stab fell to his knees, pressed his forehead to the floor and he screamed too, and I daresay our screams harmonized, at least in how much they pained us. This, I believe, is the story of America, told in a forgotten church in the hinterlands, with a choir of the dead mutely witnessing. “You tore out the heart of my people, Three-Persons,” Good Stab said into the floor. “I’m sorry,” I said back, I knew how weakly. “I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry.”
