“You really think so?”

The Reverend nodded. “‘Further, deponent sayeth not’—or to put it in the vernacular, ‘That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.’”

Jackson took a sip of his Pepsi and reached for a bowl of popcorn. “Think this guy might be trouble?”

“I don’t know. I’m tempted to say no, but…” Grant parted his hands before him and shrugged.

“Gotcha,” replied Jackson.

“So why am I here?” asked the Reverend.

Both Grant and Jackson looked at him.

“I think that would be obvious,” said Grant.

“I’m not entirely dim, Grant. I’ve already figured out that part of your anxiety is born from concern—and despite the rumors, that will not be the cause of your downfall someday—so I’m guessing that it’s fairly obvious he has no place to go?”

Grant nodded. “He’s got a lot of cash on him, but the more I think about it, something tells me he’s…well, lost, I guess. I’d bet the farm on it, if I owned one.”

“You know there’s always room at the shelter, and I never turn anyone away, so what—?”

“His eyes,” said Grant. “There’s something about his eyes.”

The Reverend nodded. “Something in his eyes, or something that’s missing?”

“Catches on fast, doesn’t he?” said Jackson, smiling at both men.

“Something missing,” replied Grant. “There’s this awful emptiness in his gaze—not like he’s crazy or anything like that, but you can take one look at this guy and know he’s seen or been through something that just…tore the center right out of him.”

“A ‘Thousand-Yard-Stare’?” asked Jackson.

“Something like that, yes.”

Grant saw Jackson’s hand go to his holster and unsnap the cover.

The Reverend—who’d seen this, as well—cleared his throat and said: “Either of you guys ever heard of a writer named Gerald Kersh?”

“Night and the City?” asked Jackson. “That Gerald Kersh?”

“I never read that one,” said Grant. “But I’ve got a copy of a story collection called Men Without Bones that I’ve read about a dozen times.”

The Reverend grinned. “A regular Algonquin Roundtable are we three. Why doesn’t it surprise me that both of you have—oh, never mind. The point is there is a line from Kersh—I’m not sure from which novel or story—that goes: ‘There are men whom one hates until a certain moment when one sees, through a chink in their armor, the writhing of something nailed down and in torment.’”

“That about covers it,” said Grant. “There’s something about this guy that’s seriously hurting, and it’s kind of scary.”

Jackson signaled for a refill. “Only kind of? You called us both up here and away from our jam-packed social calendars for kind of scary? Sorry, Grant—no one pulls me away from an all-night Gilligan’s Island marathon for ‘kind of’ scary.”

The Reverend turned toward Jackson. “That may be the saddest thing I’ve ever heard come out of your mouth.”

“Oh, bite my bag, Reverend. You forget I’ve seen those boxed sets of Green Acres DVDs you have stashed back in your room. You got no room to pass judgment on taste.”