They stand before the priest and will never be happier or any more heroic than they are at this moment. The bride spots a fly crawling across the nose of the crucified Jesus and sneezes before she can answer. A mother stares at her child and can't remember the father. Across the street, a man stands on a stool and washes his store window. A motorcycle cruises by. The priest looks up. There's a light drizzle. Good weather for fishing, he thinks. He likes to fish, likes to stay out all day, even if its windy and pouring rain, even if the lake is empty. Out there, fishing, everything is of interest. Minnows, and old boot, the bottom.
The police telephoned again today. "We're sorry, Karl, but he got away this time, too. You better lock your doors and stay inside until further notice." This is the fifth time the officer has called, and it's always the same message for a man named Karl. Each time I want to tell him he's got the wrong number, that I'm not Karl, I don't know any Karl, but I end up holding my tongue. It feels so safe to be updated this way, to know the police care and look after you. But then, of course, there's always Karl. I don't trust him. There's something elusive about the man. Actually, no one has heard from him since this all began. It's as if he has completely vanished from the face of the earth.