Ezra hesitates, then takes the middle chair. He does not spin it or adjust it. He sits like a man sitting in a waiting room.
The clippers move in steady, careful strokes. The sound is rhythmic—almost musical. The light through the dusty window shifts.
I don’t know what I want.
What do you believe in, O4M?
Ezra exits. The bell jingles.
Ezra sets the mirror down. Picks up his helmet. This time, he holds it like a helmet, not a bomb.
The lights fade to black.
You left a little length at the crown.