The Bronco sped over the asphalt past the Circle K, past the bank, past the nursery. They had not slept last night after they’d gone back to bed, but they had talked, discussing in whispered voices their fears and feelings, their thoughts and theories. Nothing had been resolved, nothing had been solved, but both of them felt better, safer, more secure.

Doug’s anger, however, had not abated one whit, and with the coming of the dawn he had taken a shower, eaten a quick breakfast, and told Trish to stay home and guard Billy. He was going to confront the mailman, and he wanted to do it while he was still mad enough not to be afraid. She had sensed this, understood this, and had not argued with him. She’d simply nodded and urged him to be careful.

He pulled into the parking lot of the post office. The only other vehicle in sight was the mailman’s red car, and he parked right next to it. He got out of the Bronco and walked toward the glass double doors. They were being targeted, he and Trish and Billy, though he did not know why. Everything else at least fit together, made a kind of perverse sense. Ronda and Bernie had been killed because they were rivals; Stockley had been done away with to shut him up; the dogs had been murdered because, as everyone knew, mailmen hated dogs. But no such reasons or rationalizations could be found for the mailman’s unceasing harassment of Doug’s family and friends. Of course, other people in town were being harassed too, but not as subtly, not as purposefully. Doug knew what was going on, and the mailman knew that he knew and was playing games with him. The horrors were gradually increasing in intensity and proximity, moving in concentric circles toward he and Billy and Trish at the center.

The doors were open and Doug stepped into the post office. The morning chill had not penetrated the inside of the building. The temperature of the stale humid air felt as though it was in the high nineties. He walked up to the front counter, refusing to look at the twisted and repugnant wall posters. The floor felt wet and sticky beneath his feet.

The mailman emerged from the back, smiling. As always, he was wearing his full uniform. As always, his voice was smoothly plastic. “How may I help you, Mr. Albin?”

“Knock off the shit,” Doug said. “We both know why I’m here.”

“Why are you here?” The mailman’s smile widened.

Doug leaned forward. “Because you’re threatening my family. Because you came into my house last night and left us a note.”

“What kind of note?”

“You know damn well what kind of note. It said, ‘Hi.’”

The mailman chuckled. “That is pretty threatening.”