The executioner stepped upon the scaffold, his face obscured from the television viewers watching from their living rooms. In less than ten minutes his name would slide up the screen in the closing credits and everyone around the world would know his name. For now, he remained a secret.

                A woman cried out somewhere on the set as the prisoner completed his climb to the platform. Emily guessed she'd been his lover. She wore the red rags of an accomplice.

                "Who is it Mama?" Lizy asked, her tiny silhouette of a nose curved upward against the back drop of the illuminated screen.

                Emily returned her attention to the small sweater she knitted. "A red card." She held the sweater up to her swollen belly. "Just a red card."

                Lizy stared at her for a moment, waiting for more. She quickly turned back to the television as the death march started.

                Emily wanted to cry. The man on that stage could very well be Lizy's father. He had the same ragged red hair, the same dark eyes. The camera man made sure to catch a shot of his eyes. They didn't plead or beg, merely stared out as if disconnected from the universe the way his head would soon be disconnected from his body. For Lizy's sake, she'd never tell of a time before red cards. Those had been the dark days, filled with anger and hatred. The girl, now seven, didn't need to know about a world like that.

                The prisoner knelt before the block and closed his eyes. His lips moved to the poetry of a prayer. Not even prayer would free him. Nothing would save him now. No reprieve, no act of mercy. His days had run dry.