Last night I was in the Winn-Dixie on Carrollton Avenue inspecting grapefruit. I palmed a Ruby Red, juggled it from hand to hand. Then I punctured its thick, oily skin with my right thumbnail, like I always do. It’s a foolproof method for testing freshness that my mother taught me, but this time something went wrong. As I lowered my head to smell the grapefruit, I inhaled the steely smell of ripe blood, and in my hand was the severed head of John the Baptist. I don’t believe in visions, but there I stood holding the awful evidence beneath the fluorescence, a trail of blood snaking down my arm.