Mektoub, they say in Arabic. It is written. Whatever you think, whatever you say, whatever you do, it has a consequence. And although we may not be aware of them, perhaps there is someone witnessing the whole thing. Not just witnessing but taking note to be entered into the Book of Consequences, the record of everything that has ever taken place. To be a witness, according to some philosophies, you have to have transcended the seemingly endless go-round of life and death. Stepping off that treadmill, it is said, you can sit back and watch others still journeying on. In a state of detachment, you assume the role of recording what is significant. Lives begin. Souls take on bodies yet again and try to fulfill their souls intentions yet again. Some make it, some do not. It is all written. In different parts of the world, each seemingly disconnected, individuals play out their lives. A writer in New Zealand and his homeless muse, a widow in Adelaide, a fingerless guitarist, two American academics, a Spanish saint, a gifted child in Amsterdam, an elderly Lebanese shoemaker, an Australian jihadist, and a drifting orphan who learns to hate the French. What do they all have in common? Nothing, it seems, except for the one who watches them all and annotates what is worth recording. And yet there is something moresomething that not even the notetaker can foresee. Everything has consequences. As they say, it is written.