The day was waning, the air cooling, but the inside of the post office was extraordinarily hot and muggy. It had changed again, Doug noticed immediately. The walls, formerly a drab public-building grayish-green, had been painted a deep black. He had never before noticed the color of the floor, but the cement was now an unmistakable blood red. The philatelic posters on the wall were all of stamps that could not possibly exist. Bloody tortures. Unnatural sex.

Behind the counter, Doug saw Giselle. She was sorting through a pile of letters. She looked almost Nazi-like in her new blue uniform, Teutonic hair swept under her cap, and the sight of her in this place, in this position, made her seem like an entirely different person. She seemed tainted, corrupt, merely by her association with him, as though she had somehow turned her back on everyone else in town, on her parents and her old friends, and had betrayed them.

The thought crossed his mind that the mailman’s goal all along had been to establish some sort of paramilitary organization using the local kids, a youth group that would usurp the power in the community. But, no, if that had been his plan, there would have been earlier signs and indications; he would have recruited other people already. Besides, that answer was too easy, too clean, too literal. The mailman’s real goal, he felt sure, was not so simple, not so clearly defined.

If he had a goal at all…

Real life, Doug reminded himself, was not like literature. As an English teacher, he dealt constantly with the themes and motives of fiction, and he had a tendency to ascribe a similar structure to reality. But this was not a novel where acts were performed for a reason: to illuminate character, to reveal a truth, or to achieve an end. It was possible, more than possible, that the mailman was here in town not for a specific purpose, not as part of some evil grand design, but for his own entertainment or amusement. Or for no reason at all.

He found Tritia’s hand and held it.

Tim cleared his throat, approaching the counter. He, too, must have been surprised by the state of the post office, but he let none of it register. “I need to speak with Mr. Crowell and Mr. Smith,” he said.

Giselle looked up from her work and glanced from Tim to Doug and Tritia. She smiled at Doug, and he instantly regretted his superficial characterization of her. She had not changed, after all.

Then why was she working for the mailman?

“Is Howard here?” Doug asked.

Giselle shook her head. “He’s still sick.”

“Could you please tell Mr. Smith I’d like to talk to him,” Tim said.