In exchange for the legs, the nugget lays a charge in me: there are things that I can do, now, that I’ve yet been unable to do. The nugget chose me, so I will be the nugget’s legs, and it’ll be my heart. It'll stay safe in my pocket.

Then it is time to look ahead.

I have a brother. He stands thoughtfully at the birth of trenches. This brother says to me: “Once, there was a time when we were functioning well. Now we’re not so well. We’ve been lazy a lot, and too apologetic about ourselves. The eyes, the wild ones — you’ve seen them — they have the answer for it, I think. When they die they keep the answer inside them.” “What answer are you talking about?” I ask. He says: “Don’t ask dumb questions.” “What do you mean?” “We have to get it in order to make it,” he sighs.

“Oh,” I answer, and then, “So, what are you expecting to make?” “You’ll see. Get me ten dead eyes.” “So, there’s no other way, for you?” “I’ve just told you: we’ve been too apologetic, so we’ve ended up like this. Are you telling me, now, you’re gonna be a part of the problem?”

I shrug. I don’t care about his philosophy; I’m curious about what he thinks he can make from dead eyes that will be helpful to anyone. I tell him: “I’ll see what I can do.” “Thanks,” he answers.

Getting to the second town from here will take a while. There are many hard breaths in it. As I go I see no dead eyes.

Fortunately, there are places along the way, places with food and water to keep me going, and people to catch me.

Trenches meet and depart. I’m walking only a short time — little more than two hours — when I find myself stopped before a ledge. Where did it come from? There’s no cure for this ledge; I cannot proceed. Perhaps this was only bad luck, a rare luck. At any rate I’ll need to return to town and start again.

I climb out and wind back. Through the streets. To the beginning. One must start there always if one is to end at the end.

I look at my map, and with fingertips I touch a library. From that library I find another. There are many neighborhoods in this town, after all, and for each neighborhood a library. Satisfied, I fold the map down and make it cozy in my pack.

I gaze thoughtfully down the path that the trench has put out before me. How many dead eyes have followed this route, and how many of them remain? Then for reassurance: Perhaps I’ll find legends on the way.

As I go, the trenches widen and narrow. They spin and bend me. At the sides there are doors with signs. One is ornate and it says, LIBRARY, in black, so I must enter.

As I leave, I pass the circulation desk. Whenever I set my books here, the assistant gives me surprising ones in return. The transaction in every library is never a clear or understandable one, to either the patron or the assistant; things of value must always be surrendered in order to make equal gains. But suddenly I want to know what happens should I take the books that I’ve chosen and run with them; therefore I take the ones that I’ve chosen and I run! I'll return with them another time.

Unfortunately, the assistant appears to be insane and therefore sees what I’m doing. The vision her carnival eyes have given her are sharp ones. I feel bad for her: I know the price for these eyes. However, her words have an artistic taste: this saves her. She’s going on about Sarah Kane, the English playwright. She’s building to a quote. I ask her "Is that a quote of Sarah Kane?" “Yes,” she confirms. I nod solemnly.

Were her eyes dead not live, my brother would want them. I know he would; but I also know that they would not be useful for his purpose.

Outside, between the trench walls again, I'm nice to a nervous guy. He tells me there are things that he wants to do and that he has always wanted to do, but for lack of glass. If he’d had glass in him: a great many things would have gotten done that have not even started getting themselves done and probably never will. Likely, also, a great many things that he hasn’t yet thought of — things that could have conceived themselves as the result of other things having begun their process of becoming — might have gotten done. Sadly, I can offer him no glass, as mine has not yet finished delivering me to its intended place. Once I’m there: then I’ll have a better idea how much glass I can spare; until then I will not know.

Suddenly my sister appears from ‘round the corner and we surprise one another. Blinking, she asks me what I think I'm doing. I look at the eye that cries in my hand. I look back up at her anxiously, and now she doesn’t speak.

I stammer: “I thought it was dead; I didn’t know.” She frowns: “What do you mean, you didn’t know?” “It was our brother who asked me,” I explain, “he said get 10 eyes for him — dead eyes, for him. I don’t know what he wanted to do with them. Something political, I think.” “You’re saying you’re not doing it for yourself?” “I’m doing it for him, I wanted to help him.” “Then it shouldn’t get done,” she says. “Give back the nugget I gave you. I’m discharging you. You’re discharged.”

I stand and frown: “What ? Discharged? I chose my own mission, Sister. I chose it for the nugget. You didn’t choose for this nugget. You gave it away.” She doesn’t answer. As we continue to stare at each other I can only think, It’s my nugget , my nugget! The nugget belongs to me and I to the nugget ! I am the nugget! I look at her, at the woman who wants to repurpose my heart. Her hand twitches with obnoxious impatience. Behind her suddenly is a commotion from the pack of eyes, who I see are moving back across the path. My sister, hearing them, steps aside and looks around, then to the side where there are no eyes. Something there is distracting her. At this moment I push myself forward, to set the woken eye free among its kin, but then I stop myself. With the eye still in my palm I turn back to my sister, who remains looking at the side of the trench and has not changed her puzzled expression. I consider running. Then I run. I don’t know if she’s following.