By the time the pair were sixteen years old, Charles had folded enough sheets at Soap’s Hope (a Goblin staple; a Laundromat well known for criminal break-ins and poetry meetings, too) to cover the city’s jarring green skyline. He’d saved up money, too, enough to buy himself a dented brown Oldsmobile. On that very day, the Ridnours invited Richard to join them for dinner in the lobby of the Woodruff. They took Richard out to eat annually by then, a thank-you, Richard imagined, for his service, for being their son’s only friend. Charles suggested they ride downtown in his new car.

Charles was in good spirits on the drive.

“I’m thinking of going into statistics,” he said.

They took Christmas south, the same road they’d walked five years ago, the day Richard introduced Charles to Goblin. Showed him the landmarks. The hot spots. The municipal buildings, too.

Gravel kicked up from the tires into the border of thick trees lining the road. The North Woods were north of them, but the rogue evergreens could be found this way, too.

“Statistics,” Richard echoed. “That sounds like the perfect thing for you.”

He imagined his odd friend occupied by crunching numbers. Perhaps there was a match in there.

A yellow Lab trotted out of the woods, onto the road ahead.

Richard turned to Charles, to point it out, but the look on his friend’s face stopped him.

Charles had seen it, no doubt, but rather than show any concern his eyes lit up.

Richard thought of the things people whispered in the halls of Goblin High. They were juniors now and Charles had long become the butt end of a hundred thousand weirdo-jokes. And yet not many told them to his face.

“Hey,” Charles said. “I think we can get him.”

Richard looked to the dog.

“Get him, Charles?”

Charles slammed his foot down on the gas. The Oldsmobile roared to joyful life, as if it’d been waiting for just this moment since its last owner left it dented and alone so many years ago.

The dog stopped in the middle of Christmas. It looked up at the coming car.

Richard wanted to think his friend was joking. But the idea wasn’t going down easy.

He’s going to do this, Richard. He’s going to do this!

“Charles. Come on.”

“We’re gonna get him, Richard.”

In the shadows of the trees, his eyes went black.

Richard estimated they were fifty yards from the dog. He could see it was old now. But wise or not, the dog remained, sniffing at pebbles, its tail lolling in the sun’s slanted, cracked rays.

At twenty-five yards Richard lifted a hand. As if he might grab the wheel and turn it.

“Charles!”

He thought he was too late. He had to be. Either the dog moved now or they were going to get him, indeed.

Richard’s stomach dropped. His throat tightened. He placed a hand on the wheel.

“Charles!”