By the time Randall left the church, Lincolntown was well in the process of waking up for the day. More people strolled along the streets, ladies in eastern-styled dresses stayed far from the edges of the wooden sidewalks so as not to dirty the hems of their clothes.

  Randall arrived back at Billy’s shack before eleven in the morning. He listened at the door but, hearing no coughing or moaning of the sort that accompanied Billy’s sickness, presumed the boy to be still asleep. He took the opportunity to get a small campfire going and make a breakfast of bread and beans and boil some water for coffee.

  When the small meal was ready he approached the shack again and gave a knock.

  “Billy? You awake?”

  A feeble cough answered him.

  “Got you something to eat here,” he said, “And that Bible you asked for.”

  “Slide it under the door for me?” came Billy’s voice.

  Randall checked the bottom of the shack’s door. There was a gap, sure enough, between the bottom of the door and the ground but not enough of one to admit the Bible.

  “Won’t fit,” he said and from within Billy heaved a pitiable sigh of discouragement, “I can open the door a crack and push it through-”

  “No!” said Billy, “Don’t open it. Just leave it there… I’ll get it.”

  “I could just-”

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  “I can get it!”

  Randall didn’t push the issue further. He obeyed, leaving the paper, pencil, and Bible in a neat stack beside the bowl of beans in the same place Mark had left the previous day's food.

  “Ok, Billy,” he said, “It's right here for you.”

  Randall withdrew a few steps, where he could still see the edge of the door and not so far that he couldn’t help if the situation required it. A few long minutes passed and then he heard a rattle at the doors latch and it screeched open a few hesitant inches on its rusty hinges. Even where he stood, the smell of the foul air, heavy with the stench of rot and sweat, wafted over him and his hand jumped involuntarily to cover his nose and mouth.

  A hand, pale as death and peppered in oozing sores, emerged cautiously from the shadowy interior of the shack. From its position Randall could tell that poor Billy was laying on the floor just inside, probably pulling himself along to grasp at the gifts on the threshold. That poor hand, the noxious skin stretched so thin it could have been a skeleton’s hand, clawed at the stack of papers and food, quivering from an effort utterly disproportionate to the task, and dragged them back into the shadows, heedless of the trail of pustulous fluids it left in its wake.

  Once withdrawn, the door of the shack slammed shut again and the latch clanged shut.

  Randall made a desperate effort to swallow the lump of bile that had risen in his throat at the sight and smell of that desecrated hand and the subhuman squalor of its cave. He succeeded, with some effort, and wiped at the tears congealing him his eyes as he approached the shack again.

  “You get everything alright?” he asked, his voice trembling with severe emotions of pity and revulsion. He hoped Billy couldn’t hear from his tone the struggle he endured.

  “Yes,” said Billy.

  “You need anything else you just let me know.”

  The lingering odors of that place of death trickled into Randall’s nose as he spoke. The bile again rose in his throat. He swallowed hard and strained to hear Billy’s wilting voice.

  “Thank you, Randall.”

  Randall cleared his throat but could not speak. He turned and again withdrew from the shack, further away and at a quicker pace this time. He did not make it far before he lost his battle and vomited into the grass.