I locked the door, took off my jacket, hung it on the adjoining seat and stretched out with the ledger in my hands. I hoped that a good night’s rest finally might cajole my memory. It was too dark to properly see the storyboard, but I was familiar with the illustrations, anyway. I flipped through the pages and tried to establish some connection between the drawings and my conversations earlier in the day.
I hoped to recall something of my prior association with this dystopian fantasy because – even with my faulty memory – I felt no connection with this type of story. Nevertheless, I attempted to come up with some semblance of a plot. I recalled Balzac’s chatter about a team of super beings or acolytes or some nonsense and I felt that Kurt, the hero who had lately languished, had been summ
