The image of the old man offering his blood to the kid, the sucking sound, the smell of shit and sweat that clung to the concrete walls—this and the other horrors of the past few days hit me all at once. The urge to flee was powerful, but I was so woozy I barely made it to the doorway before sinking to the ground in a stupor.

“You look like you’ve seen a monster,” Czarnecki said with a laugh.

He was a foolish man, or, I don’t know, maybe a brave one, joking like that while I was holding the gun. Maybe he’s taken my measure and decided I’m not the kind that’ll lash out no matter how far I’m pushed. Maybe he’s had my number since he approached me in the parking lot and I agreed to follow him here.

In any case, I didn’t shoot him. I sat against the doorjamb and stared out at the light spilling from the cabin, at the trees against the sky, at the stars sharp as needles. I inhaled deeply, trying to flush the filth from my lungs and refill them with clean air.

The sound of a scuffle made me turn back into the shed. Czarnecki was struggling to pull his arm away from the kid.

“Let go, motherfucker,” he growled.

I stood and pointed the .45. “Should I shoot?” I said.

“Should he?” Czarnecki yelled. “Should he?”

The kid released him and backed away. He ran a finger over the blood on his lips, sucked it clean, and showed his gold tooth in a defiant smile, then stretched out on the cot and rolled to face the wall.

Czarnecki turned off the bulb, and we stepped outside. He closed the door and locked it.

“Might be time to get a new hound,” he said, loud enough so the kid could hear. “You can’t keep a biting dog.”

He pressed a handkerchief to the cut. I held the .45 out to him. “Bring it inside,” he said.

“I’m all wrung out,” I said.

“Five minutes,” he said. “Sit with me while I patch this nick.”

I could barely keep my eyes open, but I followed him to the cabin.

He poured himself some whiskey and brought out a cigar-box first-aid kit. After painting the cut with iodine, he asked me to lay a bandage over it. My fingers brushed the scars on his arm—waxy pink worms spaced regularly as fence posts—and I pulled my hand away, repulsed.

He smiled and lifted his other sleeve to show more scars.

“My rosary,” he said. “Each a mystery to be contemplated.”

“You’re religious?” I said.

“I was, then I wasn’t, but I might be trending back. You?”

“I believe in God,” I said. “I believe Jesus Christ died for our sins.”

“How do rovers fit into your system?”

“There are demons in the Bible.”