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the public mind. Just as deeply and permanently as had become its naïve interpretations of Good and Evil.
    However, Eli’s windows—an inventory of six, so far—were not souvenirs filched from some medieval mosque or twelfth-century cathedral. They were rewards given to him by his mentor.
    But more importantly, they were portals; sashes upon which the universe itself was hinged.
    And through which he would soon have ingress.
    “Come on, come on,” he grumbled.
    The empty space of wall before him was reserved for his seventh—and what was to be his last—window, its six predecessors spaced evenly and adjacently along the same gray cinder block, as if on display in some subterranean gallery renowned for its eclectic art. Each window had been tightly fastened to the masonry by what he could only describe as “magical means,” as their framed edges appeared to have been soldered into the brick. And though each one only measured four-feet by six-feet, he was confident that they were pliant enough to allow Jupiter and its ever-growing number of moons to comfortably pass should they and this basement ever cross interstellar paths.
    These were not windows in the availing sense, were not offering colorfully cloudy, misshapen perspectives of the Seattle afternoon. Rather, they were ornamented, framed pictorials, each one a hodgepodge of Roman, Byzantine, Gothic, and Renaissance persuasion and technique. Small, juxtaposed pieces of translucent glass artfully arranged into powerful images.
    But while most praiseworthy colored glass portrayed biblical accounts—the kinds one would find in Le Mans, France, home of the famous Ascension, or Canterbury, England, where reside a magnificent series of twelfth-century windows representing the genealogy of Christ—Eli’s windows might have been depicting choice passages from Dante’s Divine Comedy or Milton’s Paradise Lost . There were human figures cringing from gargoyle-like demons swooping down at them, others writhing and thrashing in pools of bright yellow fire, and still others impaled upon spires of eternal flame.
    …and where he stops…
    But that would not be his fate, he knew. No, his destiny was not profiled in the images before him, not blatantly and in such fabled conflagration, but rather in the peripheral regions not explored in the glass murals. Those areas where reality could be penciled in, then erased; brushed on, then whitewashed; scored, then filled, all at the artist’s whim. And, all modesty aside, Eli considered himself a regular fucking Rembrandt. A prodigy.
    Some twelve years had passed since he’d come into possession of the first window, each proceeding one having been acquired upon his simultaneous receipt of a ten-year-old girl.
    Eli’s love for glass tapestry was as old as his love for angel lore, ergo his assignments and rewards. His mentor had kindly integrated these passions into the playbook; had, in fact, built his stratagem around them. A compliment in and of itself.
    …nobody knows.
    The coach, however, had yet to make all the game’s objectives known to him. Little bits and pieces learned over many years on the playing field, that was all. It was never even clear to him if his team was winning or losing.
    But one thing was certain: he was still in the game.
    Another safe bet was that the game balls—the angels and windows—were placebos for his cramped and near-sighted intellect; personifications to keep him focused, effigies to bolster his morale, moorings when he was blind-sided or took a knee to the groin. Supernaturally speaking, of course.
    Throughout the years of looking beneath the surface for cryptic clues as to what his mentor might be up to, Eli often considered the possibility that there weren’t any, that the powers that be were prone to simply act out impetuously sometimes, perhaps driven to whim by mere boredom. To set things in motion that fulfill nothing more than the need to keep their muscles from atrophying.
    There