1923
A pile of flesh and bandages lies on a stone floor. Ragged breath. Clay is alive but just.
He wakes to find the note. “Go to the yard. Climb to freedom. All is taken care of.” It is signed, “A friend”.
He gives the cell door a tentative tug. It opens freely. He stumbles down a dark passage, past cages where other broken men are dying.
There’s the rope. He struggles to the top of the prison wall.
The city spreads before him like a gray blanket littered with sparkling light. Beyond is the darkness. He knows what’s out there. He knows Griffith Park is out there.
He wraps the rope around and around his neck and he leaps.
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