I.

Every morning, my children Diesel and Nokweed lead me out to the execution grounds. Yesterday was decapitation. Today I face the rifle. All of us look forward to Sundays when we can sleep in. But today is not Sunday.

Diesel walks on my left, the older of the two, still wearing yesterday’s frock. The hem has stiffened where the blood dried. His mother will scold him for that when they return. It is never good to leave stains sitting overnight. Nokweed goes a few paces ahead of us; the rifle is taller than he is, and the barrel knocks dully against his shoulder as he walks. He keeps his eyes forward. His free hand trembles slightly at his side, but I pretend not to notice.

The road slopes gently south from our house toward the wall. The baker is already open. I can smell the loaves cooling on their racks. A few townspeople pass us on their way to market. Most offer polite nods. An elderly woman gives the boys an encouraging smile and tousles Nokweed’s curly black hair as she passes.

Diesel clears his throat. “Papa, do you think we can stand a little closer today?”

“Closer?”

“For the shot, I mean. The instructor said it helps with accuracy.”

I consider this. It would certainly make things quicker. “That seems sensible,” I say. “Just don’t let the gatekeeper see you.”

He nods with relief, pleased that we are approaching the matter practically. Diesel has always liked breaking rules, but only ever so slightly. When he was small he would line up his toys in careful rows across the floor, assigning each of them specific duties. Then he would spend hours making them argue about who had failed to perform their job—often unjustly—until the working classes began to agitate.

We reach the southern wall just as the gatekeeper swings the iron doors open for the morning. Beyond it lies the field, a stretch of pale grass that slopes down toward the old quarry. The targets stand in neat intervals, their posts shredded from years of use.

Nokweed stops walking.

Diesel bumps up against him. “You have to keep moving,” he says. “Otherwise we’ll be late.”

Nokweed nods, though he still does not look at me. Last night he sat beside my bed long after the candles burned down, asking whether the rifle would hurt. I told him the truth.

“Yes,” I said. “But only for a moment.”

The wind scatters quarry dust across the field as I walk ahead of them and plant myself in the usual spot. Off to my right is the chopping block where my head was detached in two fell swoops. Somewhere in the grass a crow sounds his impatience. Nokweed struggles to raise the rifle into position; it wobbles in his skinny arms. Diesel approaches and shows him how to set his feet the way the instructor taught them. “I already know all of that,” says Nokweed and shrugs him off.

I kneel so that we are nearly eye level. “Take your time,” I call to him. “There’s no rush.”

“But Mama said—”

“Mama says many things,” I reply. “Not always correct. But she also makes delicious scrambled eggs every Tuesday morning, and they are best eaten warm. So we should try to do this properly.”

That seems to calm Nokweed. Diesel gives his brother a firm nod.

“Alright,” Nokweed says.

The barrel steadies; the crow falls silent. It’s warmer than expected for early March, and the sun feels nice on my face after so many months of winter. I straighten my collar, brush a bit of dust from my sleeve, and smile at them both.

With any luck, they’ll be home in time to eat before school.