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The television supposedly taught him English in a few hours.

No fucking way, I think. But he must be able to tell, because when I look back he falters. Seems confused. Then tries to fill in the blanks brought on by my incredulous silence. “Perhaps it is not intended to be used for this purpose. I have transgressed by harnessing its power for something other than spreading the word of great savings at Costco this weekend and the mighty chicken crisper deal at Chili’s available Monday to Thursday for a limited time. If so, forgive me.”

“Okay, you have to stop doing that.”

“Failing to extol the virtues of five hot dogs for $4.99?”

“No, the being sorry. You are not a sorry person.”

He nods, gravely. “Yes, I have gathered as much from your attempts at restraining me. I have wronged you, in whatever form I formerly took, that much is clear. So great a sorceress could only be angered by a villain.”

“And you’re supposedly not this villain anymore.”

“I have no memory of him, or his deeds. Only of my own.”

“Right, and what are they? Pillaging. Murdering. Making yourself king of Sweden?” I ask, expecting the same earnest-seeming seriousness that he’s been employing up to now. But instead, he laughs.

“My father was ledare för en klan, but that is not a king. And if it were he would not confer such a title upon me. My interest in learning and storytelling over lopping off heads—it was a grave disappointment to him.”

“Well, he’d be real happy about how you turned out, then.”

“Because I am now a beheader?”

“Yep. In fact, you once tried to do just that by holding my face in front of an oncoming train,” I say, and when I do I get a flash of it. My arms pinwheeling over the tracks, the shriek of the 7:10 to Gretna Green as it barreled toward me. His hands, I’m sure his hands were on the nape of my neck. The last time I had a flashback to it, they were.

Though weirdly, they don’t seem to be now.

And there’s something else about the memory, an added weird detail. Was I falling already before he grabbed me? I don’t know, I don’t know. I only understand that I was saved by him stumbling.

He fell backward, and accidentally hauled me with him.

Or, at least, I think so. It’s hard to tell sometimes—it’s all so foggy. And weirdly, it looks like something is kind of foggy to him, too. He’s staring at me with eyes that suddenly seem faraway. And he swallows thickly before he responds. “He tried to cut off your head with the giant metal horse that Ross accidentally traveled too far a distance on?” he asks.

After which, I have to fight not to say the episode title.

“The One with the Girl from Poughkeepsie,” I think.

Then set it aside.

“Yeah. And he laughed while he did it.”

“Then it seems I have no choice.”

“Glad we’re on the same page.”

“Indeed. I shall commend myself to the grave.”

“The what? Wait, no, just hang on a second.”

“I cannot. I must throw myself upon my sword.”

Don’t worry, he doesn’t really have one, I tell myself. Then watch him reach behind the couch and pull one out. He lifts it above his head, like fucking He-Man. “You have a sword, too? Where are you even getting this stuff?”

“From Frank’s medieval weapons emporium, on the road named Seventy-Five. I traded the papers you call money for them from my leather pouch. He was well pleased, and bid me return anytime.”

“Oh god. Halsten is gonna be so pissed when he gets back into his body.”

“He will never get back into this body. I will see to this by destroying it,” he says, so fearsome and so full of force that I know what he’s going to do. And I know that it probably won’t actually kill him when he does. But it still sends a jolt through me to see him aim that sword for his heart.