A single cloud hovers north of Wall where a thousand drifted at dawn. A red cable and a black cable coil over one another ‘neath the chokecherry, snaking towards the shrieks. The hum stops.

Whispering: “Where’s the money, Portcullis? Where’s the fucking money, shithead?”

Matte brown drapes of dried – maybe cooked – blood fall from the clamps clutching his clavicles. Throaty odors of scorched flesh and blood waft from the duct tape looping under his armpits, over the clamps, and across his shoulders. This weeks-old heist is a slow-cooker.

Wheezing: “Damn you, Gynous, dig my grave and find it.”