I was just out of prison. My victim was a man who mistreated
a girl I had fathered. The gun was where I’d stashed it long ago.
One clean shot—then it was cover-up time. I went on a walk
through a ruined industrial area where I’d latched on with a job.
Hiding places for the weapon were everywhere: in the open pits
or fast-hardening cement. Too obvious. I walked on till I reached
the other side of the complex, then broke through a cluster of trees.
Beyond, a dome-shaped mountain rose from a white seashore.
I took the gun and hurled it as far as I could out into the waves,
then stood there for awhile, hoping to feel a change. Coming back,
I came upon an artist’s encampment. He was using found materials
discarded by the factory. I was invited to sit down at table with him
and his twelve followers. Throughout, I pretended to be a person
who had regained his sight after years of blindness. Then the artist
gave me some clay and said I could shape it into anything I wanted.