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           Louisfoundafreshdispenserofstrappingtapeinoneofthekitchendrawers,andtherewasacoilofropeinthecornerofthegaragenearlastwinter’ssnowtires.Heusedthetapetobindthepickandshoveltogetherinasingleneatbundleandtheropetofashionaroughsling.

           Toolsinthesling.Gageinhisarms.

           Heloopedtheslingoverhisback,thenopenedthepassengerdooroftheCivic,pullingthebundleout.GagewasmuchheavierthanChurchhadbeen.HemightwellbecrawlingbythetimehegothisboyuptotheMicmacburyinggroundandhewouldstillhavethegravetodig,fightinghiswaythroughthatstony,unforgivingsoil.

           Well,hewouldmanage.Somehow.

           LouisCreedsteppedoutofhisgarage,pausingtothumboffthelightswitchwithhiselbow,andstoodforamomentattheplacewhereasphaltgavewaytograss.AheadofhimhecouldseethepathleadingtothePetSematarywellenoughinspiteoftheblackness;thepath,withitsshortgrass,glowedwithakindofluminescence.

           Thewindpushedandpulleditsfingersthroughhishair,andforamomenttheold,childlikefearofthedarkrushedthroughhim,makinghimfeelweakandsmallandterrorized.Washereallygoingintothewoodswiththiscorpseinhisarms,passingunderthetreeswherethewindwalked,fromdarknessintodarkness?Andalonethistime?

           Don’tthinkaboutit.Justdoit.

           Louisgotwalking.

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