The Shibboleth by John Hornor Jacobs Page B

hears. But then it’ll be more doses of candy and the wet blanket getting wetter. Or I can try to climb down with a high probability of falling to my death.
    I have visions of groundskeepers driving trucks with beds full of bags of mown grass and leaves and me just jumping off the side of the building and landing amidst the soft, fluffy lawn detritus like a stuntman from a movie. But to get to where I can jump down over the parking lot—all of the eighty- or ninety-foot drop—I’ll have to jump down the first twenty-five to the sub-roof.
    They don’t do lawn care at night, anyway.
    I sit down under the single-wired bulb, arms on my knees and back to the door, and rest my head on my forearms.
    After a long while, exhaustion and the seep of drugs wash over me. And I find sleep.

    Sometime in the night, a furious explosion of black wings awakens me. I lift my head and try to stand but discover that my ass and most of my legs are numb.
    It takes a long while for the pins and needles to subside. Finally, I rise, creaky, to look at the now clear sky, brilliant with a million stars. The air has cooled as the hours ticked by, and my skin ripples with goose bumps as I look up into the indifferentheavens. I can see the arm of the galaxy whirling around us, the milky wash of light arcing across the sky.
    A raven stands on one of the teeth of the crenellations, in profile. I feel like it’s watching me, but it’s hard to tell in the dark. Its caw sounds more like the bray of a donkey when it comes, and I jump in my skin. The raven leaps upward, spreading its wings, wheeling out of sight. And then, as I turn my eyes back toward the heavens, the bird crosses my vision, flying overhead, a patch of absolute dark obscuring the spill of stars.
    After that, I’m alone. The world settles and dims. All is quiet.
    I’m a sentry in the castle, watching for the dragon. Waiting for the attack.
    I am the eye of the world.

    Later, I lie on the roof bone-weary, cradling my head in my arms. Thoughts bubble up in my frazzled brainpan, unbidden.
    Rollie.
    There’s so many I should have helped, if I only wasn’t so selfish—Vig, Moms, Coco, even Ox, Warden Anderson. Booth.
    Where has that raven gone, and why was it here?
    I am pinioned by stars until I cannot take any more of it.
    I close my eyes.

    It’s hot already, and the sky is streaked with rosy streamers in the east when I wake. The air-conditioning units roar white noise and cacophonous fury, and I roll to my hands and knees and pant into the morning air like a damned dog, tailless and without a master.
    My mouth is dry, and there’s a pressure behind my eyes.
    I stand, look out upon the world. I see the tops of the trees, the shadows below them shifting, shortening. The black tar road from the highway, lined with Bradford pears, lies straight, an arrow toward the highway. And as I watch, a state trooper turns down the lane, approaching the building.
    They’ve figured out I’ve escaped. Well, almost escaped.
    I could jump. If I lived, I could see what’s below. Maybe there’s a drainpipe I could shimmy down. Maybe there’s a window or a door I could get in through.
    I can jump. I can do it. And who cares even if I die?
    Jack.
    Jack cares. Vig, maybe. Booth.
    And I’m a coward. And selfish. I don’t want to die yet. Hell, I don’t even want a twisted ankle.
    And it’s already hot again. Sweat trickles from my temples and prickles my back. I haven’t had anything to drink since a slurp at one of the water fountains on the ward yesterday afternoon.
    The sun’s over the tree line now. An ambulance, sirens silent and lights unlit, turns off the highway, following the trooper’s route to ye olde Tulaville Psychiatric Hospital.
    It passes out of my sight, beyond the lip of the roof.
    I wait.
    Damn, I’m thirsty. But even so, I’ve got to relieve myself, and I’m half ashamed that I’ve