How far away school seemed, how quaint and innocent. He tried to think of when school was going to be starting, but though he thought it was pretty soon, he wasn’t sure. He realized he didn’t know what date it was.

He left Tritia at the hospital while he went to the police station to see what was happening. On the way, he passed by the Circle K, and he slowed down as he saw the mailman opening the blue mailbox in front of the convenience store. The mailbox was completely empty and he slammed the metal door shut angrily. He looked bad, Doug thought. He had always been thin, but now he seemed gaunt, almost skeletal. His pale skin was bleached nearly bone-white, and there was no differentiation in color between his lips and the rest of his skin. Even his once fiery red hair seemed faded and lackluster.

Doug’s heart leapt hopefully in his chest. It was working. He had been right. The mailman might be able to substitute mail, even to generate mail, but to do so he had to have other mail coming in. He smiled to himself. Mail, he thought, could be neither created nor destroyed.

Doug watched the mailman stand. He seemed weak, frail. All they had to do now was wait him out.

The mailman suddenly turned toward him and grinned, eyes fastening sharply and instantly on his own, as though he had known exactly where Doug had been watching the whole time. The effect of those perfect teeth in that skeleton face was horrifying. A comic-book monster come to life. The mailman reached into his bag and pulled out a handful of envelopes, fanning them like cards, offering them to Doug. But Doug pressed down on the gas and sped past the Circle K not looking at the mailman, heart hammering in his chest.

His fear did not survive the trip to the police station. He ran inside. For the first time, he had something to tell them, good news, and when he described what he had seen, the policemen cheered.

“No mail,” Mike said, grinning. “No mail! No mail!”

The others took up the chant.

“No mail! No mail! No mail!”

51

Tril Allison stood in front of the living-room window with his sons, watching as the mailman’s red car pulled in front of their driveway. Annie stayed in the kitchen, refusing to look, afraid to look.

The car came to a full stop and the mailman got out. He looked extraordinarily thin, almost emaciated, and even from here, Tril could see the bony fingers emerging from the drooping uniform, could see the haggard gauntness in the pale face. Tril’s hands tightened on the windowsill. He was scared, but he was also exhilarated, horrified and at the same time thrilled. It was working. The English teacher had been right. Without any mail to deliver, John Smith was losing his strength. He was dying.