"He said that someone broke Jean Dulac out of jail."

Camillo puts his hand over the sketch.

"...fucked up," he says, making absolutely no effort to make it sound genuine.

"He did, like, fully murder someone, you know. He was in jail. That was reasonable."

"I'm not that worried about him going in for round two."

"People do normally go for jail even for just one murder."

"Yep," he says, unconvinced for personal reasons.

Camillo shifts to a more pragmatic tack.

"He really doesn't seem like the stablest guy around."

"Kind of substantially on me," he points out.

"That is true."

"Are you just going to keep him in a kennel in your basement or what."

"I'll feed him and brush him and take him for walks."

"You can't take him for walks. He's, like, top ten most recognizable guys in America."

"Shit."

"...his sister's trying to work something out. Kinda feel like I owe him a place to stay in the meantime."

"Can you at least get me his autograph."

"Obviously."

(Camillo might catch him just looking at him, for the rest of the day, when he thinks his back is turned. He keeps two fingers hooked around his like a promise.)

Jean will find Jigsaw's workshop, at a lower bound, habitable.

There's enough furniture to live on, and enough groceries to feed him, and enough space that he doesn't have to keep away from the windows or never step outside. Jigsaw will order things for him, if he asks, and wander downstairs with wood shavings on his clothes to make coffee.

Loud music and the sound of power tools echo down from the second floor at odd hours. Sometimes the futon in the living room turns into a bed, when Jigsaw has lost track of time or has exhausted himself too much to drive home.

The traps aren't as necessary, now that there's a full-time resident. He shows him how to disarm and re-set them anyway.

Jean watches and listens attentively, and finds that reverence prevents him from touching the traps, even to disarm or re-set them. If Jigsaw forgets and leaves one set in an inconvenient location, he'll wait -- in a room, or a corner of a room -- very still, entirely patient, as long as necessary.

Otherwise, he finds it remarkably easy to live an unremarkable life. He eats through the groceries, in a systematic and nutritionally balanced sort of way, without any real attempt to cook them. He asks for books, and reads them; asks, once, for a music player, and listens to music on it. He exercises.

For large parts of the day, he lies on the floor, staring up at the ceiling, imagining what lies beyond it.

All in all, it's more pleasant than solitary confinement. On the occasions when Jigsaw makes an appearance, it's something more than that: something sacred.

He passes through, one day, with a towel around his neck, holding a bar of steel.

"I'm gonna be out back all day. You want company?"

Jean gets up from his supine position to follow him at once.

"Out back" includes a small outdoor forge and anvil, which seem to be the center of today's activities.

Jigsaw fiddles with the valve of a propane tank.

"...what was it like being Jean Dulac?"

Past tense, yes. He chose his love and he lost it in the same blow. Was that, too, part of Jigsaw's design?

"It was -- very agreeable. To be on the stage, I think, is the finest of life's pleasures."

The forge lights. The rock wool begins to glow.

"...you didn't have to confess. Could've got some private security and stayed out there."

It's a question.

"And leave your record blemished?"

He has a set of stretches for the sake of his scars, prescribed during his brief encounter with a physical therapist. He sits down on an available tuffet of grass and begins working through them.

"I mean. I think it's good you did it."

He slides on the heavy leather glove lying on the anvil, and picks up a pair of tongs.

"Don't totally understand how it was worth it, for you."

"A matter of integrity, I suppose. One artist to another."

He turns to the other side, feels how it hurts when his skin pulls taut across his ribs.

"My art was my life. Yours, perhaps, something more."