I sit in the corner of the small cell, staring across the space at the heavy metal door with the barred window and wonder if they have finally figured it out. Do they now understand that Johan Svedberg in New Orleans, Yaris Mycroft in Philadelphia, Elvis Moriarty in Phoenix, Frederick Gottlieb in Seattle, and all of the other men are one and the same?

How can they fail to notice? On one level it’s very disturbing. Disappointing, really. Aren’t databases of criminal behavior kept? Sooner or later someone must realize that there simply aren’t that many elderly men in the continental U.S. that get arrested for whacking unsuspecting people on the back of the head with a bamboo stick.

It is troubling, but it isn’t important.

What might happen tomorrow is much more important. Will tomorrow be the day that someone senses the strike and snatches the rod from my hand?

Only then will I find my apprentice.

I sit in the corner of the small cell and wait for my release, so that I can continue my search.