“Three dollars!” Deke cried. Shock was setting in. His heart was beating wildly, his muscles thrumming with adrenaline. He believed the creature might be going, and this made everything infinitely worse: to be so close to a continued life and still know it could be snatched away at this fucking loony’s least whim.

The loony brought out a battered old wallet, opened it, and rummaged for what seemed an age. Saliva drizzled steadily from his mouth as he bent over the wallet. At last he came out with three dollars. He put them on the counter. The wallet went back into his pocket. He rummaged in his nasty-looking jeans (rode hard and put away wet, Deke thought), came out with a fistful of change, and laid three coins on the Skoal pad. Two quarters and a dime.

“I tip twenty per cent,” his customer said with unmistakable pride. “Jonesy tips fifteen. This is better. This is more.”

“Sure,” Deke whispered. His nose was full of blood.

“Have a nice day.”

“You… you take it easy.”

The man in the orange coat stood with his head lowered. Deke could hear him sorting through possible responses. It made him feel like screaming. At last the man said, “I will take it any way I can get it.” There was another pause. Then: “I don’t want you to call anyone, partner.”

“I won’t.”

“Swear to God?”

“Yeah. Swear to God.”

“I’m like God,” his customer remarked.

“Yeah, okay. Whatever you-”

“If you call someone, I’ll know. I’ll come back and fix your wagon.”

“I won’t!”

“Good idea.” He opened the door. The bell jangled. He went out.

For a moment Deke stood where he was, as if frozen to the floor. Then he rushed around the counter, bumping his upper leg hard on the comer. By nightfall there would be a huge black bruise there, but for the moment he felt nothing. He turned the thumb-lock, shot the bolt, then stood there, peering out. Parked in front of the store was a little red shitbox Subaru, mudsplattered, also looking rode hard and put away wet. The man juggled his purchases into the crook of one arm, opened the door, and got in behind the wheel.

Drive away, Deke thought. Please, mister, for the love of God just drive away.

But he didn’t. He picked something up instead-the loaf of bread-and pulled the tie off the end. He took out roughly a dozen slices. Next he opened the jar of mayonnaise, and, using his finger as a knife, began to slather the slices of bread with mayo. After finishing each slice, he licked his finger clean. Each time he did, his eyes slipped closed, his head tipped back, and an expression of ecstasy filled his features, radiating out from the mouth. When he had finished with the bread, he picked up one of the packages of meat and tore off the paper covering. He opened the plastic inner envelope with his teeth and shook out the pound of sliced bacon. He folded it and put it on a piece of bread, then put another piece on top. He tore into the sandwich as ravenously as a wolf. That expression of divine enjoyment never left his face; it was the look of a man enjoying the greatest gourmet meal of his life. His throat knotted as each huge bite went down. Three such bites and the sandwich was gone. As the man in the car reached for two more pieces of bread, a thought filled Deke McCaskell’s brain, flashing there like a neon sign. It’s even better this way! Almost alive! Cold, but almost alive!

Deke backed away from the door, moving slowly, as if underwater. The grayness of the day seemed to invade the store, dimming the lights. He felt his legs come unhinged, and before the dirty board floor tilted up to meet him, gray had gone to black.

When Deke came to, it was later-just how much later he couldn’t tell, because the Budweiser digital clock over the beer cooler was flashing 88:88. Three of his teeth lay on the floor, knocked out when he fell down, he assumed. The blood around his nose and on his chin had dried to a spongy cake. He tried to get up, but his legs wouldn’t support him. He crawled to the door instead, with his hair hanging in his face, praying.

His prayer was answered. The little red shitbox car was gone. Where it had been were four bacon packages, all empty, the mayonnaise jar, three-quarters empty, and half a loaf of Holsum white bread. Several crows-there were some almighty big ones around the Reservoir-had found the bread and were pecking slices out of the torn wrapper. At a distance-almost back to Route 32 two or three more were at work on a congealed mess of bacon and matted chunks of bread. Monsieur’s gourmet lunch had not agreed with him, it seemed.

God,Deke thought.I hope you puked so hard you tore your plumbing loose, you-

But then his own guts took a fantastical, skipping leap and he clapped his hand over his mouth, He had a hideously clear image of the man’s teeth closing on the raw, fatty meat hanging out between the pieces of bread, gray flesh veined with brown like the severed tongue of a dead horse. Deke began to make muffled yurking sounds behind his hand.

A car turned in-just what he needed, a customer while he was on the verge of tossing his cookies. Not really a car at all, on second glance, nor a truck, either. Not even an SUV. It was one of those godawful Humvees, painted in smeary camouflage blobs of black and green. Two people in front and-Deke was almost sure of it-another in back.

He reached out, flipped the OPEN sign hanging in the door over to CLOSED, then backed away. He had gotten to his feet, had managed at least that much, but now he felt perilously close to collapsing again. They saw me in here, just as sure as shit, he thought. They’ll come in and ask where the other one went, because they’re after him. They want him, they want the bacon sandwich man. And I’ll tell. They’ll make me tell. And then I’ll-

His hand rose in front of his eyes. The first two fingers, coated with dried blood up to the second knuckles, were poked out and hooked. They were trembling. To Deke, they almost looked like they were waving. Hello eyes, how you doing? Enjoy looking while you can, because we’ll be coming for you soon.

The person in the back of the Humvee leaned forward, seemed to say something to the driver, and the vehicle leaped backward, one rear wheel splashing through the puddle of vomit left by the store’s last customer. It wheeled around on the road, paused for just a moment, then set off in the direction of Ware and the Quabbin.

When they disappeared over the first hill, Deke McCaskell began to weep. As he walked back toward the counter (staggering and weaving but still on his feet), his gaze fell on the teeth lying on the floor. Three teeth. His. A small price to pay. Oh yes, teeny dues. Then he stopped, gazing at the three dollar bills which still lay on the counter. They had grown a coating of pale red-orange fuzz.

“Oht ear! Eep owen!” Owen, that’s me, Owen thought wearily, but he understood Duddits well enough (it wasn’t that hard, once your ear had become attuned): Not here! Keep going! Owen reversed the Humvee to Route 32 as Duddits sat back-collapsed back-and began

to cough again.

“Look,” Henry said, and pointed. “See that?”

Owen saw. A bunch of wrappers soaking into the ground under the force of the pelting downpour. And a jar of mayonnaise. He threw the Hummer back into drive and headed north. The rain hitting the windshield had a particularly fat quality that he recognized: soon it would turn back to sleet, and then-very likely-to snow. Close to exhausted now, and queerly sad in the wake of the telepathy’s withdrawing wave, Owen found that his chief regret was having to die on such a dirty day.