“It’s got something to do with the kind of wood that was used to carve it,” he said. “This thing probably doesn’t weigh three ounces, it’s really delicate.” He turned toward Jackson and the Reverend. “See how it’s standing just on its fingertips? Yet it somehow manages to stay perfectly balanced.” He touched it once more, and once more it moved—glided, to be exact. “I guess it’s because of the pressure, y’know? You touch its head, and that creates a small amount of pressure all the way down to the fingertips, and when you pull your hand away and the pressure’s relieved, the fingertips kind of act like a spring.”

Jackson shook his head. “Sorry, friend, but I was watching. You hardly touched it. Grant hardly touched it.”

“Like I said, it doesn’t take much. It’s real delicate.”

Grant quickly scanned the customers to make sure none of them had seen him jump away from the figure like a spooked little kid. Satisfied that no one had noticed, he moved toward the corner of the bar once more. “So what’s it supposed to be, anyway?”

“Mr. Hands.”

“Really?” asked the Reverend. “This is your monster, your demon? The one that’s responsible for ‘the Hands of Fate’ and all the rest of it?”

The guy shrugged. “I don’t know if it’s responsible for everything bad, but it’s done some serious damage. I know. I’ve seen it.”

Despite his rising anxiety, Grant smiled. He’d been hoping the guy was leading up to an interesting story. He turned away to pour himself a cup of coffee before getting comfortable, but the guy must have thought he was turning away in disgust or pity because his hand shot over the bar and grabbed Grant’s arm. “No! You gotta listen to this! I have…have to tell someone. Please? I…have to.”

Jackson was on his feet at once, gripping the guy’s shoulder. “Take it easy, there, buddy, hear me?”

The guy nodded his head, took a couple of deep breaths, and tried to compose himself. “I know how it sounds, I do. Even if you don’t believe it, just…just listen, okay? I’ve been trying to get someone to listen for most of my life, but the doctors and everyone else tell me I must have imagined it, or that my mind turned it into something else…they tell me what I’ve got is…oh, what’s it called?”

“Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder,” said the Reverend. It was not a question.

The guy nodded. “Yeah, but…but they’re wrong, you understand? I mean, okay, yeah, maybe that’s part of it, PTSD or whatever in the hell it’s called—that’s what I have to take all the fucking pills for but they don’t always work on their own, you understand?” He faced each man in turn. “So please, please, even if you think I’m full of shit, even if you think I’m nuts, would you just please listen?”

Grant covered the guy’s hand with his own and gently pulled it from his arm. “Settle down, friend. I was just going to pour myself a cup of coffee and pull up a chair. Would you like to have some coffee with me? It’ll be on the house.”