A camp meeting at dusk. Our symmetrical rows of pine benches are set up to face a small clearing at the edge of a deep grove. Two bearded preachers are leading us in song, one on the left and one on the right. We sing. Quickly, two cleanshaven bandits storm in from the back, shouting threats and knocking over benches. Each sets up among us in lunge pose, his rifle cocked and aimed at a preacher. The congregation is paralyzed by terror, so we wait. After midnight, a holy sniper blows off the ankle of the rightmost bandit, breaking the symmetry with a loud pop. We know he will be shot again before he is tried, if he is tried. So we scurry home to our cabins, each one alone to wait for the dawn.