“The city of Plzen,” Enon read aloud from the newspaper, “lies about 100 Kilometers, (62 miles), southwest of the Czech capitol, Prague.”

“Why would they lie about that?” asked Skute, who had somehow quietly woken up and wanted to join the conversation. You could tell he was still foggy from whatever drugs had induced him to pass out in the first place. Enon rolled his eyes and made a face that said he thought Skute was a complete moron. Skute saw Enon’s expression and opened his mouth to defend himself. I rapped him soundly on the top of his skull with my knuckles; the noise was similar to that of the type of wood block that is popular among rock-and-roll drummers. Kite laughed out loud. Skute soured his face and rubbed the top of his head. I made a gesture like I was going to hit him again, and he scurried away just far enough out of reach that it would be inconvenient for me to do it.

We talked about how the Pope had to apologize for something he said in a speech last week. He’d apparently been quoting some 14th-Century king, something about spreading the word of God with a sword.

“A butter knife would be better,” Kite commented. Enon looked surprised at the accidental wisdom of what she had said. So did I.