Two days after New Year’s, I am in my new office on the third floor of the Guy Montag Library when there comes a knock at my door. I expect it is the curator, Peter Peter.

Peter Peter has gone through puberty, can grow some facial hair, and speaks with a deep voice; he may look like the kind of strapping boy who used to taunt me back at Helen Keller, but he is in fact kind and patient. Sometimes I lunch with the old boy and quiz him about the forty-six years he has spent in heaven. Peter Peter is a true anthropologist, an expert on the evolution of Town and the objects sent here. He calls me son. He is older than you, Father.

On New Year’s Day, he invited Thelma to a harpsichord concert in the Northeast Corner (where the North and East Walls meet). Thelma now says they are going steady, even though Esther says one date does not sound steady to her.

I put down the object I am studying—a silver cigarette lighter with a rattlesnake engraved on its side—and go open my office door. It is not Peter Peter after all. To my surprise, it is Tim and Tom Lu. Over their T-shirts, they wear contrasting neckties: Tim’s is blue with red polka dots, and Tom’s is red with blue polka dots.

“Tom, you have a message to deliver to the victim, don’t you?”

“I certainly do, Tim. A private, sealed letter from Lydia Finkle, the jail warden.”

“I wonder what the letter says,” Tim replies.

“I asked Ms. Finkle myself, but she pretended not to hear me,” Tom says.

“Maybe the victim will open his letter and read it aloud so we’ll know what Ms. Finkle wants with him.”

As usual, they do not look directly at me while they speak. Tim hands a manila envelope to Tom, who hands it back to Tim. They pass the envelope back and forth till finally I reach over and pluck it away.

“I wonder if it hurts to get shot in the back.”

“If your friend is the shooter, I imagine it hurts very much.”

“The word ‘agonizing’ might apply.”

“I’d go so far as to say ‘excruciating.’ ”

I walk over to my desk and use my fake-tortoiseshell letter opener on the envelope. I pull out the letter, unfold it, and read it aloud to satisfy the twins.

Dear Oliver Dalrymple,

In my capacity as warden of the Gene Forrester Jail, I am writing to request your presence at our facility this Wednesday at ten in the morning.

I have been informed you wish to visit one of our prisoners, John Henzel, who would not be permitted a visitor under normal circumstances, given the seriousness of the accusations weighing against him. However, as I am sure you are well aware, the circumstances in this particular case are far from normal.

Mr. Henzel has foolishly embarked upon a hunger strike as his trial draws near. He has informed us that he will resume eating if allowed a visit from you. After much reflection, the board here at the jail, together with the do-good council from your own zone, has agreed to consent to Mr. Henzel’s request. Please note, however, that your visit will be supervised by your council president, Mr. Reginald Washington, and limited to ten minutes.

I feel we must all work together to ensure Mr. Henzel remains fit and lucid enough to attend his trial. Can I count on your presence then this coming Wednesday? Please send me an immediate reply through my couriers.

Yours sincerely,

Lydia Finkle

Warden, Gene Forrester Jail

I go to the typewriter on my desk and remove the description of butane (C₄H₁₀) that I was writing. I crank in a blank sheet of paper and reply to Lydia Finkle.

Dear Lydia Finkle,

Thank you for your invitation to visit Johnny Henzel. You can certainly count on my presence on Wednesday.

Before meeting you in person, however, I wish to inform you of certain facts, not about the accusations weighing against Johnny (I am sure you are familiar with those), but rather regarding my own reaction to the possibility he ended my life back in America.

The friends I have made here in heaven (and even strangers who have heard my story) all wish to know how I feel now about Johnny.

Ms. Finkle, I can assure you I do not feel vengeful or spiteful. People ask if I can forgive Johnny, but “forgive” and “forgiveness” are not words I would use in this case because I have never felt anger toward him.

What I feel is mercy. I feel merciful toward him because if he did commit the crime in question, he did so during a psychotic rage that bears no relation to the boy who now sits in your jail cell.

Most gommers expect me to share their desire for an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. They believe if I do not feel vengeful for my own death, I should at least feel vengeful for theirs (many of their murders were indeed horrific). In other words, they want to borrow my eye and my tooth so they can then feel free to pluck out Johnny’s. I do not deem such a response fair to anyone.

Death changes a child. We townies are not necessarily the same children we left behind in our previous lives. I myself am slightly less intelligent and slightly more social than the boy I left crumpled on the floor of a school hallway in Hoffman Estates, Illinois. Owing to this change in character, I can feel for another human being, something I admit I had trouble doing back in America.

I can feel friendship and I can feel mercy.

Ms. Finkle, you also must be different today from the person you once were. Maybe in America you were a vain and haughty girl devoted to collecting cashmere sweaters and Girl Scouts badges. (This is just a guess on my part based on girls I knew in Illinois.)

In any event, I expect you are wiser than the thirteen-year-old girl you left behind. I imagine that, to serve as warden, you must have great wisdom. Can I count on your wisdom to treat Johnny Henzel with mercy?

Kind regards,

Oliver “Boo” Dalrymple

By the time I finish typing, Tim and Tom Lu are sitting on the floor of my office and playing Go Fish with a deck of cards adorned with images of bare-breasted ladies (a curious object that came in from Two yesterday). I hand over my typed letter and tell them to read it if they wish. They do so, shoulder to shoulder, their lips moving silently in tandem.

When they finish, Tim says to Tom, “Would you show mercy to me if I murdered you?”

Tom replies, “Are you crazy? Not on your life!”