The teary eyes are never enough. For a great entree he needs sushi-grade kidneys, and even the cheap leftovers are hard to get. He’s lucky he got the Clearing House chef gig; at least they have a source of fresh meat.

He picks the back lock and quietly lets himself in, imagining how McMahon would have asked this. “Time’s up, Petulia Gibbons,” he says. “How did you spend your ten million?”

“I got everything I wanted,” whispers last year’s winner, lolling bloated in cocaine ice cream and Benjamins.

“Time to give a little back,” he replies, and marks out an incision.

“Martha, these are NOT monkey brains!” howls the Pickle, and brandishes a spoonful of tapioca as proof.

“No, they aren’t,” she agrees, “and my name is Moriah. Please put your spoon down.”

He does, scowling. “I’m a pickle,” he adds hopefully.

“Yes, you are.” Moriah pats him on the head and leans over to help Mrs. Pursey, who has transposed her own pudding with a shoe.

“Why do we even serve tapioca?” asks Yurt, breezing by with the dirty-dish trolley.

“Cheap, filling, lots of carbs,” sighs Moriah, at which point the Pickle, bright-eyed, stabs his spoon into her skull.

In hindsight, it was quite obvious: of course the names of the books of the Torah gave a date and a time, counting atomic cycles of helium from the birth of Abraham. Of course it was a Tuesday.

The mantle of the Earth would erupt, and the survivors occupy cooling lava tubes. Geothermics would become all-important, ergo steam, ergo the rebirth of rail travel. Rails need spikes; spikes need hammering; hammerers need John Henry: hero, sacrifice, god.

Of course the chapters of the Book of Henry would correspond to a date and time. Of course it would be a Tuesday.

Do you think he’ll buy it?

Certainly. In one sense or the other.

… Ah.

Don’t get scrupulous now. It’s not as if we’ll do the work ourselves.

But if he’s learned enough to understand the offer–

If he walks away, knowing what he knows, he’ll march himself into a hasty grave.

Elucidate.

The mind retains information by contorting itself, but some facts contort it into dangerous patterns. He’ll start seeing hidden pieces of the world; soon he won’t be able to see anything else. There’s no return from–

Look.

Oh.

He’s signing.

In blood?

Honestly, we’ve found tomato juice keeps better.

There’s a peculiar crackling of electricity, and mysterious blue smoke issues from the breaker box. It pools like oil on the floor and pillows forward, wrapping the rickety banister, up the stairs to the foyer. It congeals into a fat little man in a loincloth.

“Hello,” says the cat, watching.

“Hail!” says the little man. “I am Sextus Spiritus, itinerant household god. Whose abode is this?”

“The big bipeds’ upstairs,” says the cat.

Sextus peers at it. “Aren’t you supposed to tell me that you allow them to live here?”

“Are you kidding?” snorts the cat. “They could kick my ass.”