In such a rage he could barely see, Horace raised his gun and fired. The report was not as loud as he had expected. But there on the ground he lay, himself, a gory red gash through his chest. His face caught in a grimace, moaning and speaking incoherently. Why? Why. You didn’t have to. You shouldn’t have. Oh, God. Please. No. No. He looked at his hand, covered in blood, and Horace looked up at Horace, his eyes full of horror, but in recognition too, as if to say: You meant it, didn’t you? You actually hate me?

Horace ran. Ignoring the pain in his foot. The gun held tight. He kept telling himself: I shot no one. Only a ghost. Not even a ghost. It wasn’t real. But the tears that burned his face were true, as was the gut-wrenching feeling in his belly. Not like this. Not like this. As the wind whistled in his ears he heard a voice, his voice, softly say: You can run, but you cannot hide.

So, this is it, said the demon.

The Buick stalled just outside Tims Creek town limits. The sun was rising and Horace felt a particular anxiety, a strong urge to be someplace, but he could not remember where or why. The car had run out of gas, and perhaps the ramming it had taken earlier had damaged it. Horace stepped out, regarded it disappointedly, and walked away, leaving the door open.

I have something to show you, said the demon.

They marched along the side of the road; morning traffic was slowly beginning, a head or two craned to look at him. What did they see? A black boy no more than sixteen. Look at him, Helen. Look at his hair. Caked with some kind of mud or something. And wonder what he’s doing with that old, heavy overcoat on for. And look! He ain’t got on shoe the first nor—Helen—pants! Why, he’s naked but for that coat! Look at him.