At the amphitheatre gates, three girls had been queuing since dawn with amphorae of watered wine, figs, wax tablets and absolutely no chill.

“OMG,” said Livia, scratching HERCULES HAS RIZZ into the plaster with her hairpin. “I would let him clean my stables.”

Henry VIII is dancing. There’s a look of determination in his eyes as he shuffles sideways on the flagstone floor. His costume, his royal accoutrements, add to the solemnity. There is no music, just his dance. The music is coming from elsewhere, and only he can hear it. His gold chain glistens in the candlelight, his shadow mooches a few feet behind its master, elongated. Sidestep shuffle shuffle, sidestep shuffle. Henry VIII is dancing.

Adam’s coffee mug talks with a Germanic accent. Why, he doesn’t know. Words started escaping its coffee residue months ago, and when he holds the ceramic vessel to his ear, it’s like talking on the phone. All in all, the mug isn’t bad, but its claims are suspect. As if some thrift-store trinket invaded England with the Saxons in 449! All the more reason to ignore its prophecy late one Friday.

You learn quickly, working in court, that justice is blind but the courthouse is not.

The courthouse sees everything.

It sees who is late, who is lying, who is about to cry in the bathroom, and who still believes a color-coded binder can protect them from consequence. It sees who says “Your Honor” like a prayer and who says it like a threat.

It also sees wool.

Alex arrived thirty minutes early so he could choose the largest chair in the room. All the chairs looked nearly identical, but his was slightly larger. He arranged the others in a circle around it and nudged his own chair six inches forward. On a nearby table he displayed three framed certificates. One proclaimed him Founder and Visionary of the First Narcissist Club and had been presented to Alex by Alex. Another named him Member of the Month. The third awarded him a Lifetime Achievement Award.