That’s when I understood who he was. Not a man. Not a bystander. Not a rescuer. Death. Not metaphorically. Not symbolically. The real thing. The raw, ancient presence of it. Time stopped, because he willed it. He looked down at Beatrice, my daughter, frozen in my arms, and tilted his head like he couldn’t quite figure her out. Like she wasn’t supposed to be here. Like she’d confused something in his order.
