Bonneville, New Utah, 3051

On Saturday afternoon, the eighteenth of August, Amari Selkirk Alidade Clarke Hathaway Quinn sat down with a silk-smooth pen and a stack of creamy parchment, and stared at five faded, underlined words: Pie, Coffee, People, Different, Fixing.

The view of the city was stunning. Up there, above the urban canyons, it was windy, and the night was turning cool. The soft air and crickets recalled so many other evenings, filled with crickets, or peepers, or cicadas, or all three. It was amazingly soothing to hear late evening traffic in the distance. Fireworks sparkled over some celebration or other further off in the hills. A wedding was going on down below, with attendant laughter, chatter, music, song, arrivals, departures, and fireworks of its own. Finally, as the light faded, a muezzin made the midnight call to prayer.

Wind played through the tamarisk trees. Asach sat on the roof, wolfing down pie and sucking down aromatic draughts of coffee. Watched people making their way through the ancient alleys. Watched the changing light cast the city rooftops in shifting shades of green. Watched curiously as a hefty, three-armed shape made its way down the lane, raised a fist, and pounded on the door below.