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bay, I close the foot or two distance between us, standing close, too close perhaps. I see that Perry would rather not be this intimate in public. He backs away slightly, and I nod at him to stand still. He’s good at reading physical cues; we established that on Tuesday night.
    “Vin,” he warns me slightly.
    “Aren’t you curious to see what happens if you refuse to submit? Do you suppose the challenges get harder? Even bigger public displays?”
    He frowns at my cheerful tone, squints his eyes closed, and purses his lips, waiting for our first kiss. I almost laugh because his strained expression looks as if he’s expecting something painful.
    Instead of kissing him, I trace my thumb from his eyebrow to his jawline, stopping him from leaning closer. He opens his eyes and exhales oddly, a half breath of confused expectations.
    I move close, cheek to cheek. Over his shoulder, I watch until the skyline has receded enough that the buildings no longer shrink dramatically on the horizon. The Transamerica building points its metallic finger to God, a stern demand for repentance. But who is to blame and who must repent? City or God?
    The ferry coughs out a regular series of discordant grunts as we cross the final stretch of water. The engine stinks. Someone’s not putting in the right oil. It shouldn’t make that grinding noise either. Maybe that’s the burned oil smell, not popcorn.
    Focus up, Vin.
    Despite our intimate proximity, I doubt Perry could hear me whisper. The boat lurches through choppy waves with resonating booms, tourists chatter with excitement, and the woman throwing popcorns squeals whenever our seagull guards reappear, ready for the next assault. Conditions aren’t ideal, perhaps, but it’s time to begin.
    “Once there was a tribe of men,” I say in a strong voice, audible to none but him, “a tribe populated entirely of kings. Odd, you may think, and wonder how any work got done in such a society with everyone making rules. But these were not those kinds of kings.”
    Perry nods against me.
    “They required no throne rooms, no jewels, no gold crowns. They chose to king as they went about the business of living. The gardeners, the blacksmiths, even the tax collectors, were fair and just kings.”
    I must glance to my right every now and again to keep an eye on the approaching dock.
    “In this tribe, all brothers were rightful owners of the kingdom. You might come across King Ryan the Protector or King Galen the Courier, on your way to visit The Sculptor King. They loved freely with open hearts, some lying with other kings and some seeking women as their queens. I met one such king, a queen seeker, King Malcolm the Restorer, an African giant whose powerful voice commanded love and goodness from those who had abandoned their true selves.”
    As the boat rocks itself into the dock, our shipmates shuffle toward the stairs, but I keep Perry standing close to me, speaking right into his ear. The boat sounds have lessened now that we’re not hitting the water at high speed, so I may speak more quietly.
    “The orchards were full of ripe, luscious peaches; the beer brewed amber and frothy. King Nareeb the Baker of Gifts delivered blueberry pies and fresh, buttery croissants. You could often find King Jimbo the Bruiser stomping across the countryside tracking Kalista, his beloved falcon. Life continued exceptionally well for a timeless age, more kings discovering themselves and suddenly arriving.”
    From the corner of my eye, I watch the front of the boat, ready to elaborate if necessary. But nope, it’s time. “Yes, life was good. Until some got lost.”
    A horn blows.
    Perry jumps.
    The captain welcomes us to Alcatraz Island with the lack of cheer you’d expect from the warden and asks us not to shove our way down the gangplank.
    Perry fakes a chuckle and says, “Good timing.”
    “Thank you. I practiced.”
    As we head toward the stairs to join our fellow inmates, I describe my first visit to