I’ve been walking through the old hospital again, been imagining George and all the other men, those lumps of flesh and memory, sitting under verandas, under trees, under beds, under, under. This walk I’ve done again and again since the second novel began, these same buildings, same gardens. Nothing new to look at. There’s a section of the hospital around the back that always compels me to stop. I’ve never been able to figure out what it is exactly that I’m drawn to, only that when I’m there, I see images of men jumping from the roof, images of horses hoofing dirt. And I know on some level that images like these make the stitch of the novel. I revisit this spot because it allows me to build image into character, into narrative. But lately I’ve wondered whether something else draws me here, something I haven’t yet unlocked in the novel. I have been walking through the old hospital again, to the back of buildings. The scenery hadn’t changed. And yet. Something different. I stood, …