I was thinking out loud as I watched Ethel slide the money into a brown envelope with the rest of the week’s donations. “I worry that if something isn’t done soon, that whole side’s going to cave in and we’ll have a helluva mess down there.”

Ethel shook her head. “My, my—the mouth on you this evening!”

“I’m sorry—again.” I rubbed my eyes. “I haven’t been sleeping too well the past couple of nights.”

“Which means most of the week, unless I miss my guess—don’t bother denying it, either. I could pack for a month’s vacation in the Caribbean with those bags under your eyes. Still taking your medication like the doctor prescribed?” Meaning my anti-depressants.

“Yes.”

“Still going to your weekly appointments?” Meaning Dr. Ellis, the psychiatrist who prescribes my anti-depressants.

“They’re twice a week—and, yes, I’m still going.”

She tilted her head to the side, puzzling. “Hmm. How about your diet? Your appetite been okay, Sam? Been eating regular?”

I nodded. “Yes, ma’am. I’m not particularly worried about anything, I haven’t been drinking too much caffeine or anything like that...I have no idea why I can’t sleep.”

“Bad dreams, maybe?”

Before I could answer, a voice behind me said, “Terrible, just terrible,” loudly enough to make me jump, nearly dropping the stack of plates I’d gathered.

“Hello, Timmy,” said Ethel.

“Terrible, just terrible.”

I did a spin-dip-balance-and-catch routine with the plates that Buster Keaton would have been proud of, then set everything on Ethel’s table in case Timmy or someone else decided to test my reflexes again. “You shouldn’t sneak up on me like that,” I said to him, and was immediately sorry for the way I said it because Timmy got this look in his eyes like he was going to start crying. “Oh, hey, I’m sorry, Timmy. I’m not mad or anything, I didn’t mean to snap at you like that.” I put my hand on his shoulder and gave it a little squeeze. “Forgive me?”

Timmy is one of the more-or-less permanent residents here. The Reverend never makes anyone leave if they don’t want to or have no place else to go. The city council gives him no end of grief about this come the yearly budget meetings, but like every other city body and official in Cedar Hill, they don’t push it too far; it’s all for show, to save face. I don’t know what it is about the Reverend that makes them always back down, but I’m grateful for it, as are the permanent residents like Timmy.

Timmy is something of a walking, talking question mark to all of us. Nobody but the Reverend knows his last name, his story, or even if he’s from Cedar Hill. He never says anything more than “Terrible, just terrible,” to anyone else. But he’s courteous, and quiet, and clean.

He also sees things.

I found out from the Reverend that Timmy suffers from gradual and irreversible macular degeneration. The result is, you see things that aren’t there. In Timmy’s case, these visual hallucinations are pretty harmless: waiters, dancing animals, buildings that have been gone for thirty years, stuff like that. Timmy talks to the Reverend and only to the Reverend. The rest of us make do with Terrible, just terrible—but you’d be surprised how much he can convey with just those three words.