Mrs. Borget, the wife of the co‑founder, opened the gate at the appointed hour, unaware that the living will had become an unwelcome attraction. The talisman of this episode-a crude, non‑functional handgun-was seized by the lascivious police who, in their grand ceremonious style, rounded the suspect’s contraptions and the whetstones that bound their wrists. Three or four of the troupe, fresh as new bards, fled like the untrusted men I once met on the highway, and two were caught at the cross‑road of a ride‑hailing airplane. Their age, a curious datum of 2009 and 2010, we are told, explains a certain ambition that is all kinds of tender and unchecked.