Time. The present? Maybe last Spring. Place: The sun-dappled garden. The Dauphin sits in his maroon Barca-Lounge chair, which the nuns have graciously allowed him to take from the game room, absorbing the late afternoon rays, cream-colored Panama hat tugged down over his eyes, waiting for the Angelus bells to ring. Dauph is as peaceful as he ever gets these days. Suddenly, the pastoral calm is shattered as a voice sounds out, just behind his left ear. Sister Bernadette whispers a message.

“M. Dauphin,” she begins.

“More Thorazine?” The Dauph asks hopefully.

“No, you naughty Frenchman,” she rejoins mockingly. “A phone call. Mr. DiMartino from CREEM. He says he has a great idea.”

The Dauphin freezes.