Instead of standing outside of the post office in line, Doug walked through the second of the double doors into the building. He looked around. Things had changed since the last time he’d been here. The place seemed darker, dirtier. The blinds over the windows were drawn, and one of the recessed bars of fluorescent light had burned out. The swamp cooler was off again, and the room was sweltering, the humid prestorm air augmented by the sour odor of mingled sweat and breath. The posters on the walls were different as well, he noticed. The Love stamp poster that had hung forever on the wall above the forms table had been replaced by a poster for a new fifty-cent commemorative guillotine stamp. The poster, white against a black background, depicted a large wooden guillotine, metal blade gleaming as hordes of vicious-looking people crowded around it. On the side wall, where Howard had traditionally hung advertisements for upcoming stamps featuring famous people, was a large poster of an Adolf Hitler stamp and, next to that, a stamp featuring the demented visage of Charles Manson.

At the counter was the mailman, red hair practically glowing in the dim room.

The hair was prickling at the back of Doug’s neck, but he refused to let the mailman see his fear. He walked up to the front counter. “I want to talk to Howard,” he said as forcefully as he could.

The mailman eyed him coldly. “I’m helping someone else right now. If you’ll just wait your turn in line—”

“Just tell me whether or not Howard’s here.”

“You’ll have to wait your turn.”

“Yeah,” several people echoed.

“He’s not here,” a man in line said. “I heard Mr. Smith tell someone else he’s not here.”

Doug turned to look at the owner of the voice. It was a person he did not know, a small timid man sandwiched between a scowling woman and a blank-faced teenager. The man was obviously not used to speaking up or speaking out. He had the naturally apologetic features of the perpetually frightened, but there was determination in his face, anger in his eyes, and at that moment he looked to Doug almost heroic. Someone else was willing to fight back against the tyranny of the mailman.

“Thank you,” Doug said.

The small man grinned. “No problem.”

The mailman was already helping the customer in line, pretending as though nothing had happened. Doug walked out the door and back outside. He crossed the small parking lot, taking his keys out of his pocket. He would go to Howard’s house and catch up with him there. It was obvious to him now that, like the rest of them, the postmaster was afraid of his underling, but maybe he’d be able to talk Howard into taking some action. Something sure as hell had to be done.