He drove through the center of town toward Hobie’s neighborhood. As much as anything else, he thought, it was the small things that were disturbing: the unmown grass at the park, the weeds protruding from the asphalt in the bank parking lot, the garbage cans lining the streets, filled with uncollected trash—insignificant items on the surface, but telltale signs that something was seriously amiss. Just driving through Willis, Doug had the impression that many people were not at work, had not gone in today, that their jobs were not being performed. It was almost inconceivable that a single individual could have this much of an effect on an entire town, but the evidence was before his eyes and indisputable.

He pulled in front of Hobie’s trailer. All of the cars seemed to be in place, so he was obviously home. Hobie never walked anywhere if he could drive.

Doug walked up the dirty path to the door, pushing the bell.

A moment later, Hobie answered the door, obviously shaken. He was wearing a black-and-gold Willis Warthogs T-shirt, and above the school colors his face looked pale, bleached, even his lips drained of pigment. “Hey,” he said. “Long time no see.”

Doug smiled, though he felt like doing nothing of the sort. “How’re you doing?”

Hobie shrugged. “Not too good. But I’m glad you came.” He opened the door wider and gestured for Doug to come inside.

The electricity was off here, as it was almost everywhere, but rather than open the drapes and windows, Hobie kept the curtains shut, relying solely on candles for illumination. The trailer was filled with the smell of burning wax and rotting food, and as Doug’s eyes adjusted to the gloom, he saw that the refrigerator had been left open and that the food inside was spoiling. Trash and clothes were scattered everywhere, over both the living room and kitchen. He looked over at his friend. Hobie may have been loud and crude, but he had always been neat in his personal habits, and the shape of the trailer’s interior frightened Doug more than he was willing to admit. Hobie’s mental state had clearly deteriorated since the last time they’d spoken.

“I got another letter from Dan,” Hobie said, sitting down on the dirty couch. “He wrote it last week.”

Doug looked sharply up, but it was obvious that his friend was not joking. He was completely and totally serious. And he was terrified.

“Here. Read it.” Hobie handed him a page of crude white paper on which was written a message in a thick bold hand. Doug could not see to read, and he got up and pulled open the drape, letting sunlight into the room.

In the light, the state of the trailer looked even worse and more disgustingly filthy than it had in the dark.

“He says he’s coming to visit,” Hobie said quietly.

Doug read the letter: