He could not let her die. She might die anyway, but he could not be responsible for her death. It would mean sacrificing all of the work, all of the effort performed by himself and everyone else in town; it could even mean that the mailman would be restored to full power, free to kill other people. But Doug could not stand idly by and watch Giselle die. He had to take her to the hospital. By refusing to condemn her to death, he might be condemning others to death. But he had to take that chance.

He took a step forward. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the mailman’s skeletal arm trace a pattern in the air. He stopped, turning.

A tear rolled down Giselle’s cheek, diverted by the paper cuts into increasingly smaller rivulets. “Mr. Albin,” she cried softly.

The mailman’s twisted lips moved silently. His eyes were closed.

“Don’t let me die,” Giselle pleaded.

Her voice sounded different than usual, Doug noticed, more rhythmic, less natural, and there was something about her words that seemed stiltedly formal, which did not ring true. He looked from Giselle to the mailman and back again.

The mailman’s head moved to the right.

Giselle’s head moved to the right.

He stood unmoving, unsure of what to do.

“You’re the only one that can save me,” Giselle pleaded, her voice fading.

Doug stiffened. “The only one that can save me.”

That.

Giselle would have said “who.”

She was already dead. She had been dead even before he had stepped through the door. He looked closely into the young woman’s face, saw now the slightly glassy sheen of her eyes, the vaguely translucent thickness of the tear that had coursed down her serrated cheek. She had died sometime earlier, maybe today, maybe yesterday, maybe the day before, and the mailman had kept her here to use as bait, knowing Doug would come eventually and knowing that he would not be able to let her die. The mailman had played her like a puppet, manipulating her limited facial expressions, using her voice to say his words, animating her dead form with whatever was left of his power.

“Nice try,” Doug said coldly.

The mailman opened his eyes, glared. Their glances locked, and this time Doug did not look away. His gaze remained hard, even, unblinking. The mailman’s stare was equally unwavering, but the strength was tentative, a front maintained at great cost. There was defeat behind the iron, fear behind the aggression, recognition that he had miscalculated. He had lost, and he knew that he had lost, and he knew that Doug knew he had lost.

“You’re finished,” Doug said.