I couldn’t resist, so I asked ChatGPT for it: In the winter of 1648, beneath the stone bathhouse by the river, the magistrate arranged a clandestine rendezvous. The sauna was chosen apropos of the times: heat as truth’s ally. Steam rose like a beacon while guards were hailing one another outside. The prisoner, dauntless despite the threat of the gallows, was forced into the room. The heat, they said, it strips you down—not just of clothes, but of lies. As the attendants began lathering up, rinsing out buckets and benches, the interrogator tried to entice a confession with a calm utterance. When that failed, he leaned in to poke at the story’s weak points, the crux of a rumored plot to set somebody up in court. Sweat came sputtering, the man’s hands fumbling like a trapped hedgehog. A cruel twinkle crossed the interrogator’s eye as he cited scurrilous pamphlets the prisoner was said to espouse. Outside, life went on in oblivious simultaneity—bells ringing, children laughing. At last, the truth emerged, thin and broken by heat. History would record the confession, but not the sauna where it was forged.