I was sitting around watching some movie on TV. It was a noir period piece set in the fifties. A man in a grey suit with a fedora tilted over one eye was trying to track down the men who had killed his wife. There’s was one scene where they had him locked in a shed with one of his wrists shackled to some sort of chain. Just as he began sawing through his wrist with a rusty band saw that he had found lying around, screaming in agony and soon becoming covered in his own blood, my daughter walked in and asked what I was watching. She wanted to know what the movie was about, but I found myself strangely unable to explain the premise. I really didn’t know. I explained to her that sometimes you looked for certain actors in movies of a certain mood or genre, and you took that alone as a promising sign, without knowing much else. She considered this, nodded, and then left the room, and I went back to watching movie. The man in the fedora slipped the severed hand into his pocket, the fingers still twitching. He pulled his gun, fixed an expression of grim resolve on his face, and continued on his way.