outside at a picnic table.  my sister and my mom are there.  we’re making food to feed the village and also working out a plan to feed them all the fastest.  we know that if we do not have a plan to feed everyone in a short amount of time that the man will get us.  he’s been lurking around, typical midwestern crazy hick kind of guy.  dirty blond hair, flannel shirt, spattered jeans and work boots.  he is no good.  we have four blue squares on the table.  we move them around, creating fast passes to hop from one section of the village to the next so that we can get food to everyone without him catching us.
at a sermon in a church.  it’s packed.  rows and rows of pews filled with people we have fed or who are hungry.  the minister tells us that it is because of the Monk’s Needle that we are all together.  but the Monk’s Needle does not sew/sow peace.  He sews together the lips and eyes and ears of your neighbors.  you must always be on the lookout.  you must always speak. you must always listen.  it’s the only way to fight back.
i turn away from the sermon and go into the church basement.  the way down is not stairs but an inflatable tunnel.  he’s down here.  i’m going to kill him before he can get my community.  i have no weapon but my senses and my voice but i’m certain that’s all i need.  when walking down the squishy tunnel, my ankle turns and i know that i will have trouble running if it comes to that.  up ahead i see a black and white picture of him taped to a door.  he looks like David Bowie as Pontius Pilate.