The bullet is already in the brain; it won’t be outrun forever, or charmed to a halt. In the end it will
do its work and leave the troubled skull behind, dragging its comet’s tail of memory and hope and
talent and love into the marble hall of commerce. That can’t be helped. But for now Anders can
still make time. Time for the shadows to lengthen on the grass, time for the tethered dog to bark at
the flying ball, time for the boy in right field to smack his sweat-blackened mitt and softly chant,
They is, they is, they is.