Rain now dripping off his forehead and nose, Willy deliberately climbed the two spongy steps to the door and stood long enough to peer through the grimy glass. It was a one-room building, and he could see a clothed body stretched out on the bed.

He knocked on the glass, ready to dive for cover if he didn’t like what he saw.

But there was nothing to see. The body didn’t move.

“Great,” he said to himself, and knocked louder.

Still seeing no effect, he risked breaking the glass and tapped again with the butt of his gun.

Still nothing.

Irritation yielding to curiosity, he holstered the gun and tried the doorknob. The door opened.

Willy slipped inside, closing the door behind him. Standing with his back against the wall, he took in his surroundings. It was surprisingly warm, thanks to a small woodstove he hadn’t noticed, and it smelled as he expected it would, which was better than raw sewage, if reminiscent of it.

It was filthy, ramshackle, dark, and cluttered with a decorative flair not dissimilar from what Ron and he had enjoyed at Cheri Pratt’s.

Satisfied at last that they were alone and no booby traps were evident, he crossed over to the body and studied it, avoiding the two plastic jugs partially filled with urine.

It was Darren Bader, and, comforting enough, he was breathing. Also, as Willy appreciated, he wasn’t yet peeing straight into the mattress. That had to be a good sign.

The thin pallet being stretched out upon the wood floor, Willy reached out with his foot and nudged Bader on the shoulder. Hard. Leaving a shoe print.

There was a catch in the man’s breathing, but otherwise nothing. Willy repeated the gesture with more force and stood back, in case the reaction put those jugs at risk of spilling.

Bader flinched, groaned, shook his head, and responded, “What the fuck?”

His eyes opened, and he took in Willy standing over him. He blinked in amazement. “Kunkle?” he said thickly. “What the hell?”

“Wake up, Darren,” Willy told him. “Time for a talk.”

Like a water buffalo extracting himself from a mud bath, Bader struggled to work his arms and legs, until finally achieving a half-sitting position.

“What the fuck?”

“You said that already.”

Bader rubbed his face. “What’re you doing here?”

“I told you.”

“You can’t just walk into a man’s house.”

“Exigent circumstances. I was hoping you were dead.”

“I’m not. Go away.”

“Too late. I’m saving your life. You were in the middle of an alcoholic overdose.”

Bader shifted again and found the rough wall with his back. “The hell I was.”

Satisfied, Willy wiped his own face with his sleeve and sat in the room’s only chair, located beside a rickety card table.

“I love what you’ve done with the place. You’re clearly putting your ill-gotten gains to good use.”

“You just come by to give me shit?”

Willy tilted his head. “Maybe a little. I need to know something, too.”