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in his home, another vision came to Krogan. This time he was dressed in modern clothing—a
     T-shirt and jeans such as he currently wore. He saw himself leave his home and pick up a man whom he had never met, yet seemed
     to know. The man spoke the word—
shadahd
—that confirmed their relationship. They celebrated in the same raucous way as in previous visions. Krogan had no horse or
     spiked mace, though, so he took the keys to his new friend’s car and drove it until he found a suitable victim to surprise—a
     night watchman in a guard booth.
    At this point the vision must have ended, because Krogan didn’t remember anything more. But the next morning he awakened in
     his bed bloody and sore. His clothes were dirty and torn. He immediately thought of the vision; had it been real? He soon
     found his answer in the morning paper—a watchman had been killed in a crash, along with the vehicle’s passenger, who was the
     car’s owner. The driver was missing.
    Upon reading the news, an uncontrollable roar of laughter rose out of Krogan’s belly and filled his house. He had actually
     done this thing. He felt invincible. Powerful. He felt like a god and looked forward to his next vision.
    He had his new name tattooed between his shoulder blades as though his skin was a living football jersey. His telephone and
     electric bill might be addressed to Karl Dengler, the same name that appearedon his New York driver’s license, boat registration, and house deed. But as far as he was concerned, his real name was Krogan.

4
    G avin sat, head in hands, in the waiting room of the intensive-care unit at the Coney Island Hospital, awaiting the news on
     Grampa. The circus atmosphere the Brooklyn medical center usually entertained was all the more intensified from the crash.
     Gavin’s right knee was bandaged and propped up on a magazine table. The X rays had come back negative but the doctor had told
     him he’d probably strained a tendon and should have an MRI done to determine treatment.
    “Detective Pierce.”
    Gavin quickly looked up from counting the multishaded green speckles in the white vinyl floor. Doctor Cohn, who had been working
     with the crash victims, was back. The doctor had been updating the packed room of family members all night. Over the last
     fourteen hours Gavin’s gut had been wrenched in every direction as loved ones were delivered the good, the bad, and the still
     to be determined.
    Gavin tried to see if the doctor was wearing his “I’m terribly sorry” face. “How is he?” he said, struggling up from his seat.
    “Easy now,” Doctor Cohn said warmly, putting a hand onGavin’s shoulder and taking a seat next to him. “Your grandfather’s in critical but stable condition, although at his age
     that status could turn on a dime. X rays have shown a broken ankle and three broken ribs. He also has compression fractures
     of several of his lower vertebrae. Substantial inflammation, but as far as we can tell at this stage, there’s no paralysis.”
    As hard as it was for Gavin to hear the list of Grampa’s injuries, he was grateful not to be reading an autopsy report.
    The doctor continued. “There was blood in his urine, probably the result of an injured kidney, judging by the deep bruise
     on his back. And he has a concussion, the severity of which we won’t know without more test results. I don’t think I have
     to tell you that he’s lucky to be alive. After he hit the top wall he probably fell into a few feet of water before it all
     drained out. I don’t think he could have survived that kind of fall otherwise. As you know, some didn’t. Meanwhile he remains
     unconscious.”
    Gavin was momentarily distracted by a middle-aged man in a conservative tweed jacket. He was holding a notebook and apparently
     interviewing a woman on the other side of the room. He’d stopped while the doctor addressed Gavin. Gavin made him for a cop.
    “If your grandfather was twenty-five I might be able