Knock it off, he told himself. He was just being stupid. He was eleven now, almost twelve, practically a teenager, and he was afraid to get the mail. Jesus, how pitiful could a person get? It wasn’t even night. It was morning, broad daylight. He shook his head. What a wuss!

Nevertheless, he was scared, and for all of his self-chastisement he had to force himself to walk down the porch steps and up the gravel driveway.

He walked slowly past the pine tree in which they’d hung the bird-feeders, past the Bronco, over the culvert, and was at the edge of the road when he heard the car’s quiet engine. His heart pounding, he looked down the road to see the mailman’s car backing up quickly toward him. He stood rooted to the spot, wanting to run back onto the porch but knowing how foolish he would appear.

The car pulled to a stop next to him. Now Billy could see clearly the black interior of the new car.

And the white face of the mailman.

In his chest, Billy’s already racing heart shifted into overdrive. The mailman’s face was not ugly, not scary in any conventional way, but his skin seemed too pale, the features on his face too ordinary. His hair, by contrast, was so garishly red as to appear artificial, and this juxtaposition seemed to Billy somehow frightening.

“I forgot to deliver a letter,” the mailman said. His voice was low and even, smoothly professional, like the voice of a game-show host or news commentator. He handed Billy an envelope.

“Thanks,” Billy forced himself to say. His own voice sounded high and babyish.

The mailman smiled at him, a slow, sly insinuating smile that made Billy’s blood run cold. He swallowed hard, turning and walking back up the driveway toward the porch, concentrating on keeping his feet moving at an even pace, not wanting the mailman to sense his fear. He kept waiting to hear the car shift into gear behind him, to hear the wheels on the gravel as the mailman pulled away, but there was only silence. He stared straight ahead at the windows of the house, but he saw in his mind the creepy smile of the mailman, and it made him feel dirty and slimy, as though he needed to take a bath.

He was suddenly aware that he was wearing shorts, that the mailman could see the backs of his legs.

He reached the porch and walked directly to the door, pulling it open and walking inside. Only now did he turn to peek through the screen door at the mailman. But the car was not at the foot of the drive, and there was not even a cloud of dust where it had been.

“What’re you looking at there, sport?”