Chapter 7: Not Blood

The smell stayed with me all the way home.

Every piece of hot metal along the street announced itself.

By the depot, my head hurt badly enough that I sat on the curb.

Valerio offered me water.

"Did you know this could happen?" I asked.

"No."

"You weren't surprised."

"I was. I'm better at hiding it than you are."

My little fingernail had its old round edge again.

The silver burn on my palm had not disappeared.

I let him see both before I stood.

In the repair room, the original oath remained in its locked glass case.

Valerio set it on the bench and took a photograph through the glass.

I made him include the seal and the entire page in one frame.

Then I photographed the unopened clasps.

"It stays shut," I said.

"Agreed."

The thumbprint on the page was dull orange-brown.

The impression on Orson's coffee napkin had the same color.

The blue thread from the torn ledger carried a third fleck of it.

I cut a loose tip from the napkin, away from the seal itself.

I put the tip in water.

Orange pigment spread across the bowl.

From a drawer, I took an old donation receipt.

A resident had signed it with a nicked finger after losing his pen during an evacuation.

I cut a blank edge bearing a stray blood spot.

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