The Prisoner stands barefoot in the courtyard watching the sun, the glorious sun slide towards the horizon, staining the sky a purple pink. The temperature inches towards freezing. Minutes pass. The silence is broken by the crunch of the Guard’s heels as he circles our Man and jabs him with the barrel of his rifle as if checking to see if he’s fully cooked. The Prisoner, no hero, is on the cusp of talking. He’s almost ready to plead for mercy. But first there’s the matter of today’s setting sun and its power to bring him back to himself, reminding him that once upon a time he parked his car in the driveway and his only thought was: what’s for dinner.