The watchmaker lived in the caboose of a stationary train. He invented fresh ciphers for the Vietnamese and then just as quickly returned to the bench where his tools lay shining in chiseled troughs. On Wednesday he was fabricating mechanical replacement parts needed for the war effort. Being synchronous was key. There was a deadline but then a tin-flavored violin smashed against his arm and rainbow worms flowed like thought from his pupils. His jaws clacked. His heart burped a bloodmark. A crock of cabbage gurgled underground in the minister’s garden. All I did was climb out of the ditch, a lime-stiffened cloth wound around my head. My statement, as requested, was obscenity-free. The investigator announced a handful of identities but no one seemed to be listening. He passed Monte Cristos to those few whose babies were memories. The lesser of us stood around with marred timepieces and felt as if we might weep in concert. But this moment seemed as gentle and protective of our hopes as the scent of coming rain. The remains of his home opened like a psychotropic infomercial for some essential innovation no one watching could possibly afford. It would rain. An ecclesiastical picnic was snuffed. Snapshots mingled black and white tongues with the grass. When it started to rain I huddled under the canvas bivouac where an acolyte stood filling bowls from a pot of carp soup.