The creature coughed. “The Postal Service cannot be held responsible for injuries occurring as a result of delivered mail. If she had been injured as a result of her work, she would have been covered under federal employment statutes. But she is a part-time worker injured in a nonjob related accident. I have helped her as much as I can. I have bandaged her wounds. I can do no more. Now it is up to you.” There was hunger in his insectile eyes. “If you do not take her to the hospital immediately, she will die. It may already be too late.”

This time the young woman’s moan was a word. “Help.”

Doug stood unmoving, not knowing what to do. The seconds seemed like hours, endlessly long. He could almost hear them ticking off, one after the other. The room was still, silent, and so, he noticed, was the room out front, the town outside. Not a sound disturbed the perfect quiet. It was as if the whole world awaited his decision.

“Help me,” Giselle pleaded. Her voice was weaker than her moaning. Fresh blood spread over her chin from her serrated lips.

“She will die unless you save her,” the mailman whispered.

This was not something that could be decided quickly. This was not the sort of answer that could be decided by eeny-meeny-miney-moe, in which the outcome didn’t matter. The outcome did matter, and both the possibilities were wrong. He took a deep breath. If he had been a doctor, he might have been able to judge if recovery was possible or death inevitable, he might have been able to base his decision on knowledge and experience. But he knew nothing.

He needed time to figure this out. He needed time to ponder, analyze, study the situation.

But there was no time.

“Mr. Albin,” the mailman whispered.

“Help,” Giselle pleaded.

Doug closed his eyes. Everything within him, his heart, his soul, all of those elements that made him human were telling him to get moving and take her to the hospital. But a stubborn core of icy resolve kept him from acting. If he helped Giselle, all would be lost. The mailman, obviously, was near death. This was merely a last gasp, a final attempt on his part to turn the tide. If Doug accepted this “mail,” it might energize him enough that he might be able to really fight back. If mail’s power was proportionate with its weight or value, Giselle was the equivalent of hundreds of checks and letters.

“Help me.”