Adam’s dream had always been different. While all the other kids around him played with their Overman and their Glory action figures, and chattered about how great it would be to save the day, his thoughts were full of darker things: swirling capes, shadowy figures, spinetingling cackles… You could leave those so-called “heroes,” saving the day with their fists and muscles, to the populist masses. Villains were the idol for the truly discerning, for the intelligent man.

But it wasn’t until he was a teenager, full of self-righteousness and hormonal rage, that he finally received the impetus to act.

I get a text when I step outside. It’s a selfie of Chinta, posing in front of a statue made of diapers. I think that means I should meet her near the statue made of diapers.

I look around for a statue made of diapers, then put my phone into the face of the nearest passerby. She nods like she’s seen it, and adds an expression like she’s seen everything. She’s young. It’s cute.

I give her the closest I can get to a “where is it?” expression, and she points further into the maze. I don’t even try, just set out in that general direction.