Buck's Row, before first light. I take the measurements alone. Godley holds the onlookers back. Crowe again — the last to come. Late enough to miss the blood. Early enough to see it all. Ledger open, steady hand — I already know the spot. Not decoration. Not a madman's hand. These aren't drawn for the dead — they're aimed. Read the wound before you read the man — I don't like how much he sees. The reasoning always comes after. I only say it out loud. Depth of cut. Angle. Spacing. Everything falls into place. Call it a lunatic's design — I call it evidence. Nothing more. Notebook line: the hand. Notebook line: the marks. Third time he's named it before the coroner. I write it down. I don't ask why. I reach for the ledger, catch my hand. Call it the hour. Call it strain. The doctor's answers came rehearsed. A convincing actor. Nothing more. Then why does the room feel colder Every time you're sure? Ask me again. Ask me how. (Something answers. Not quite I.) Not decoration. Not a madman's hand. Never for the dead. Always aimed at us. Read the wound before you read the man — I don't like how much he sees. He was always there first. I used to call it his nature. I know it differently now.
