Howard stood up and walked over to the railing, staring out at the green belt. “John’s a good worker. He’s polite and hardworking. He does a fine job.” The postmaster’s voice was so low they could barely hear it. “But I don’t like him. I don’t know why, but, God help me, I don’t like the man. I don’t like him at all.”

Howard left after ten. Doug offered to drive him home, but he said he was not drunk, and indeed he seemed to have no trouble walking in a straight line or speaking clearly. Still, Tritia made him drink a cup of coffee before he left, and both of them watched from the porch as he drove away, red taillights disappearing into the trees.

Doug had asked him about the mail, had told him that he suspected that the new mailman was losing letters, but the postmaster, once again closed off, said that what was happening was common. Mail, like tides, he said, had ebbs and flows, it was never constant. But there seemed to be a pattern here, Doug argued. They were getting no bills or junk mail, nothing negative. Coincidence, Howard said, and although Doug did not believe him, he did not press the point. It was nothing he could prove. Still, he was determined to make out checks for the regular monthly payments on his bills and send them out tomorrow instead of waiting for the bills themselves to arrive.

Locking the front door behind them as they went inside, the Albins decided to leave the dishes until tomorrow. From upstairs, they could hear the rough arhythmic sounds of Billy’s snores. Doug smiled. The boy was a regular lumbermill with his log sawing, his snores as loud and deep as those of an old man. Tritia turned the light off in the kitchen and they walked down the short hall to the bedroom.

“Don’t you think Billy’s been kind of quiet lately?” Tritia asked.

“No more than usual.”

“It seems like something’s bothering him. He’s been, I don’t know, distracted. Like today, when he came home from Lane’s, I asked him what he’d been doing, and he just shook his head, wouldn’t even answer me. Then he sat there and watched TV for the rest of the day.”

Doug chuckled. “So what else is new?”

“I’m not joking. Could you just ask him what’s wrong? After all, you are his father.”

“Okay. I’ll talk to him tomorrow. I don’t know what you want me to find out, but—”

“Just see if he’s in any kind of trouble, find out what’s wrong. I’m probably just imagining things, but it never hurts to check. He’s almost a teenager, you know.”

Doug knew what she was hinting at, but he didn’t pursue the subject. “Okay. I’ll talk to him.”

“Thanks.”