I know that man under that black mask. His name is Henry. My wife and I were at his daughter’s wedding. We were also at her funeral. I wore the same hat to both. My knees are sore, so is my back, and my wrists are tied together much too tight. It’s irritating.

I ask Henry how Marie is, if she still has the bad knee. He stares at me with angry eyes, and if they could speak, they might say, this is supposed to be anonymous! Well, what do I care? What do I have to lose except this little bit?

Someone calls my name, the man reading the list of accusations. They’re all made up, of course, but very soon another man will judge me as if they weren’t. Hardly justice, but it is what it is.

Henry tried not to hear me. I could tell it was difficult.

I ask him more questions, all rhetorical. Isn’t it funny how dark it was that night, Henry? Hard to believe someone could actually make out a man’s face in all that fog, isn’t it Henry? Hey, who was it that tried to save your daughter, Henry? I forget at times which stories I’m in and which I’m not.

The eyes are angry again. He yells at me, that he never mentioned me by name, that it was a figure, he’d told them, and that he didn’t know who it might be. I yell back. He was the only one that they spoke to.

The arbitor interrupts us. “Enough!” he shouts. “Bickering won’t change a thing! Silence, both of you!”

He is right, of course. I guess I’d just lost my head.