The Chaplain smiles slightly. His sister used to say the same thing to him. He will tell her of this coincidence at their dinner next Sunday night. He will tell her this over red wine and steak, and Richard will be on his way home from the long haul, and the kids will be excited and wild. And when he tells Miranda about this, the Prisoner, this man in front of him now, will be dead.
“What if,” the Prisoner says, looking at his shaved spots, “what if it grows a little stubble in three hours? That could happen, couldn’t it? And then stuff won’t stick? And maybe it won’t work? Or the hair will catch fire?”
“Doubt it,” the Chaplain says. “Hair can’t grow that quickly.” And then he stops and realizes what he said. Not that quickly. The execution is coming fast and furious. Twelve noon. No tim
