6:46

We entered the white field blissful, washed, aware of only a static lisp in the ears. Baby hair a touch above. A cube of blue lake with stairs leading to a balcony overlooking sun-dappled market street cobblestones and awnings striped and green and cream with liquor logos in burgundy and navy just beginning to bleach. The crib on the porch in back where the woods run down to the beach, canoe dock and tetherball pole. The baby seat on the broad sill by the bay windows overlooking Troost, bus stop, chicken bucket, broken sidewalk.

That guy needs to change his oil.

We got down from the scaffolding, our white coveralls, goggles, masks and mesh hair nets shining in the arc light. The hydraulic lift was stuck. We smoked a joint. And then another. The decontamination team was late because Holder had a head cold.

The Fabulist and Realist slid up at dusk in the canoe, shipping paddles clunking underwater sounds heard across a half mile of glass laketop.

We expected a new interrogation job, but you? The surprise on all our faces when the hood came off. A momentary look of relief in the flashlight beam, gone the second we hit the fluorescent shed.

Yes, that’s a red wolf on the wall.