Even Tritia must have noticed something odd about Hobie, for she was not as hostile to him as she usually was. Indeed, as the three of them ate Italian sandwiches on the porch, she seemed downright sympathetic toward him, going out of her way to bring him into the conversation, and for the first time that day he relaxed a little, though he was by no means his usual talkative overbearing self.

After lunch, Tritia returned indoors, and the two men remained on the porch. “So, whatever happened with your books?” Hobie asked, belching loudly. “Ever get an official no from the district?”

Doug nodded. “I sent them a letter back, though, complaining.”

“What’d they say?”

“Nothing.” Doug smiled wryly. “I guess their reply got lost in the mail.”

“Willard Young. Shit, he’s nothing but a dick with feet.”

“Wrong side of the body. I’d call him an asshole.”

“That too.”

They were silent for a moment. From inside came the muffled clink of china as Tritia washed their plates.

“Something’s happening in this town,” Hobie said finally. His voice was low, serious, totally unlike his usual loud bluster, and Doug realized that for the first time he was hearing the sound of fear in his friend’s voice.

The emotion had to be transferable, he thought, for he could feel the cold prickling of peach-fuzz hair on his own arms and neck. “What is it?” he asked, keeping his voice neutral.

“You know damn well what it is.” Hobie looked at him. “The mailman.”

Doug leaned back in his chair. “I just wanted to hear you say it.”

Hobie licked his lips, ran a hand through his already tousled hair. “I’ve been getting letters from my brother,” he said.

“You never told me you had a brother.”

“He was killed in Vietnam when he was nineteen.” Hobie took a deep breath, and when he spoke again, his voice was filled with an uncharacteristic bitterness. “He was only nineteen years old. Richard Nixon’s going to burn in hell for that one. He’ll join Lyndon Johnson, who’s already down there.” He looked at Doug. “But the point is, these are letters Dan wrote when he was over there. Letters we never got. Letters that somehow got lost.”

Doug didn’t know what to say. He cleared his throat. “They might not be real letters,” he said. “We’ve been getting… fake letters, letters supposedly from friends but written by the mailman himself. I don’t know how he does it or why he does it, but—”