When he was born, Jorge was something of a medically idolatrous marvel. Upon his infant chest was an intricate pastiche of birthmark and freckle to produce a near-perfect copy of Pierre Mignard’s The Virgin of Grapes. However, as the blemishes beneath the image clearly spelled the word “Susan,” the high church quickly dismissed the child’s pigmentation as a minor miracle in the same holy league as a near-perfect game of baseball or a delightfully temperate mid-autumn afternoon in order to avoid a theological and public relations nightmare. After all, no deity has ever been called Susan, and the cardinals weren’t about to renege on two-thousand years of perfectly respectable Marys, Johns, and Josephs for one boy’s tummy. Since his younger fame, Jorge has become a dedicated ferroequinologist, and a patron of the local arts.