“He was in here with me when you two came in!” Chuy leaped to his feet and began looking around. “You don’t think he got out when I went upstairs?”

“Maybe Mr. Snuggly sneaked in,” Joe said. Rasta and Mr. Snuggly had a long-running feud, though more often than not Rasta barked and danced around when Mr. Snuggly came near. He’d never hidden before.

Joe called, “Rasta! Here, boy!” with a kind of hushed urgency. He didn’t want to wake the boy.

They heard a pitiful whine.

“Look,” Chuy said, pointing to an old desk about ten feet away. A tiny face peered from behind the furniture, ears back.

“He’s scared,” Joe said, recognizing the look and attitude.

“Of what?”

Joe reached out a hand to touch Chuy’s arm. When Chuy looked down at him, Joe nodded toward the sleeping boy. “Him.”

They were thoughtful for a while. No one came into the store to disturb them, and the phone didn’t ring. None of the old people from the hotel stopped by, which was something of a relief. Visits from the newcomers formed an increasingly frequent (and not always welcome) part of the day. The boy slept on. From time to time, he twitched in his sleep or his hand went to his face as if something about it bothered him.

“He’s like the Rev,” Joe said finally, so quietly Chuy had to strain to hear him.

“But the Rev is the only one left.”

“He thought so. What if he was wrong?”

“So the boy is about to . . .” Chuy’s eyes widened.

“Yes,” breathed Joe. “Go look on the computer.” Chuy left most of the electronic work to Joe, but he could search for a calendar as well as anyone.

“Full moon in three nights,” he said. “What can we do to get ready?”

Joe shrugged. “We can stay upstairs and bolt the door,” he said. They fell silent and looked at Diederik.

18