The bright morning sunshine cut through the brisk autumn air and shone through the stained-glass windows of the Church of the Potter's Field. Golden specks of dust floated through the beams, dancing over the ornate, grimy displays of heavenly harvests and memento moris in the arms of God. Reverend Enoch stood behind his pulpit, his large, imposing frame blanketed in tassels and tweed. He adjusted his circular eyeglasses at the end of his wide nose, a wide grin stretching across his soft, bearded face as the congregation settled themselves into their seats. "Good morning, brothers and sisters, sons and daughters of the Lord. Praise Him for bringing you all safely to His house once more." The congregation gave a hearty amen. "Let us all stand now and make a joyous sound for His glory."

Enoch stepped down from the stage as his people rose and the worship band began to play. As he made his way down the steps, he looked up and scanned over the congregation. His jaw tightened as he spotted two women, one older and one younger, both dressed in black, sitting at the back of the church, staring back at him with hungry eyes. Shaking his head, he sidestepped into the end of the pew closest to him and took up a hymnbook. The brother beside him reached up to pat his back and Enoch forced the cheery smile to return to his face.

Enoch rapped his fingers against the lovingly-worn hardback as the band played on. The presence of the two women hung over his head like a dark cloud. Glancing over his shoulder, the younger woman gave a coy little wave. His shoulders rose up towards his ears as he stared as hard as he could into the hymnbook. Though he was certain the Lord delighted in his congregation's praise and worship, Enoch himself was too perturbed to enjoy it.

At last the band wrapped up their playing, laid down their instruments, and headed to the pews. Setting the hymnbook down, Enoch straightened out the collar of his suit and stepped up to the pulpit. "Praise God," he said. "Even in this world gone astray, He still watches over us and gives us great shelter and peace in His house. He guides us towards the path of righteousness which led you all here today, and it is in this place where He will one day bury us and carry our spirits away to join Him, that we may be vessels for the pouring out of His wrath against all iniquity," he said, opening his Bible and flipping through the thin pages. "In return for these greatest of blessings, the Lord asks of us only a small favor: bring ye all the tithes into the storehouse, and prove me now herewith, saith the Lord of hosts, if I will not open you the windows of heaven, and pour you out a blessing, that there shall not be room enough to receive it."

Members of the congregation stood and came forward with goods in their arms. Some placed dollar bills in the offering plate. A wiry middle-aged woman sat several cans of nonperishables down on the steps of the altar. A stocky older man dumped handfuls of 12-gauge shells atop the small pile of cash. A barrel-chested man with a long face and shifty eyes approached the altar. He reached into the inside pocket of his faded leather jacket and pulled out a snub-nosed .45 revolver and a box of bullets, setting them down amongst the other goods and nodding to the pastor. Enoch smiled warmly at him. "Very nice," he purred.

Enoch flipped to another page in his large old leather-bound Bible as the congregation returned to their seats. "A most bountiful harvest has been delivered to us this day, and I can feel in my spirit right now the Lord of hosts smiling warmly upon his chosen few. These times are growing dark, yes, and wickedness creeps around every corner of this world. But I promise you, my brothers and sisters – no, the Lord promises – that we are all safe in this sacred place. Now, if I may, I'd like to ask you all to turn with me to Romans chapter eight…"

As Enoch preached his sermon, his eyes kept darting to the back of the church. The young woman in black sat with her cheek resting in her palm, and the little old woman leaned against her shoulder, nodding off. But through their squinted, drooping eyelids, they watched him. Chills ran down his spine.

"…Now remember, my children, that none may condemn us or separate us from the love of Christ. May we face death all day long for Him. We are preaching our own funeral as we go through this life. Don't forget that!"

Amen, said the congregation.

Enoch closed his Bible, letting his large hand linger on the soft front cover. "Before you all leave me today, I ask that we stand together in prayer."

Enoch's people rose. The harlots in the back remained seated, though now more alert and watching more intently. He exhaled through his nose, a growl tickling the back of his throat. He closed his eyes, bowed his head, and lifted his hands. "Lord God, we ask you today to continue watching over us and guiding us in all our ways. May our trials and tribulations, the sweat of our brow and the aching of our backs, all be used for the glory of Your kingdom. May we be given the wisdom and good judgment to see through the clever face of evil, and may we have the strength and righteousness to cast out the wickedness from our every footfall." Silently, he asked the Lord to smite the she-devils defiling His house. Enoch opened his eyes and frowned when he saw the two women still sitting there. "Amen."

The people stood and filed out of the church, some approaching the pulpit to shake his hand on their way out. Among them was the man with the shifty eyes and the leather jacket. Enoch patted him on the shoulder. "The Lord is most pleased with your offerings, Brother Frederick. They will serve Him well someday."

"Thank ya kindly, Reverend Enoch. Y'know, it's amazing how the houses of the unholy are just left wide open for us God-fearin' folks to, ah… Harvest as we see fit."

"Yes, it is amazing. All part of the Lord's bountiful blessings. Take care, Brother Frederick."

"You too, Reverend." Fred turned and walked toward the doors of the church, tugging his jacket closer around him and lowering his head as he walked past the women in the back pew.

The once bustling church soon emptied out, and all that remained were the man of God and the two ravens who picked apart his bones with their eyes. Broadening his shoulders and adjusting his glasses, he stood before the altar with his arms crossed behind his back as the women stood and walked down the aisle.

"Riveting sermon, Reverend," said the older woman, squinting her eyes and smiling at him.

"Madam Adelaide. Miss Lorna." He stared down at them, furrowing his bushy brows. "I don't like it when you two stick your noses in here during the service."

"Oh, but Reverend," said Lorna, strutting around him, "how could we miss even a moment?" She sat down on the steps to the stage, dipping her slender hand into the offering plate and letting the shells roll from her fingers.

His feet remained planted where he stood. The hands behind his back turned to fists. "Business is business and worship is worship! Is that so hard to understand?"

"Oh, Enoch, don't be such a silly boy," said Adelaide, running her hand along his arm. "You know full well that your worship and our business go hand-in-hand."

He shrugged away from her touch. "Not anymore, they don't."

"Those stained-glass windows are very pretty. They didn't pay for themselves, did they?" Lorna looked over her shoulder, her smile sickeningly sweet as she turned back to Enoch. "It would be a shame if they were to end up broken."

"You wouldn't dare."

"We can do much worse," said Adelaide, her voice low.

Enoch looked away, his forehead creased as he ran his fingers through his curly beard. "What is it exactly that you want?"

"Nothing you would miss," said Adelaide, "just a few of your sheep."

"And I suppose you wouldn't happen to need them for some yard work, would you?"

Adelaide gave a short cackle. "No. Though I'm sure it would be nothing outside of their skillset. We only need a little… distraction."

Enoch gasped. "No!"

"Come now, Reverend," said Lorna, who crept up by his side when he wasn't looking, "surely God could spill out just a few little drops of his wrath a bit early?"

Enoch took a few stumbling steps backward, waving his hands. "No, no, never. It's one thing to take from our stockpile, but to come in here and blaspheme against the Lord and spit on His prophesy-"

"I can think of several three-letter organizations who would love to hear about your little prophesy, Enoch," said Adelaide, lacing her fingers. "In fact, I'm very certain they'd like to see your little stockpile too, as proof of your ceaseless devotion."

Enoch stopped cold.

"Now that I have your attention," said Adelaide, "you don't really think me cruel enough to just threaten you into doing what we want, do you?" Silence. "Of course not, my silly, silly boy. There's something in it for you, and I think you'd appreciate it greatly."

"…Go on."

"Consider it a repayment of the little things we borrowed over the years."

"And then some," Lorna said. "You like new toys, don't you Enoch?"

He grit his teeth. "I- I'm not so materialistic as to trade-"

"The harvest is calling you, Enoch." Adelaide beckoned with her finger, and Lorna came up alongside her. The two turned and began walking towards the door. Adelaide looked over her shoulder. "You'd best get to work before the fields are barren."

Enoch watched them as they stepped through the golden beams that poured in through the ornate windows, scattering the glittering dust through the air with their footfalls. The little old woman in black pushed open the heavy double doors to the church, and she and her coconspirator slipped away into the early afternoon sunshine. The disgraced reverend's knees creaked as he sat himself down at the steps by the altar, his large hands dwarfing the .45 as he took it up and contemplated it. With his thumb and forefinger he turned the cylinder, listening as each chamber clicked slowly past.

Beatrice slept past the morning service in the hospital chapel. She sat alone in the nicked, creaking wooden pew, bare feet against the crunchy carpeted floor as the green fluorescent light bathed over her like bleach. It glinted off the thin waves of greasy red hair that cascaded down around her bowed head. One of her hands clung to her IV pole, the other rested on her knee.

Behind the veil of hair in her face, one of her eyes peeped open, staring up at the resin-cast crucifix hanging on the wall at the end of the room. The anguished face of Christ stared up further still toward the tiled ceiling. Beatrice dropped her head a little lower, leaning her weight against the cold stainless steel pole as the bag of diluted morphine dangling from the top dripped down into her stuck vein.

She nodded off, and she soon found herself observing the memory of a younger woman, her frame leaner and her hair haphazardly shorter-cropped. It was June of 1988, and she sat alone on the forest floor swishing her hands through the tall green grass, with dirt under her fingernails and sparse, broken sunbeams pouring down on her face. Leaning back against a tall tree, she pulled another can from the smuggled case of her father's beer, cracking it open and taking a long, slow gulp. She was only 18 then, and her high school graduation was already in the rearview mirror. It was only a matter of time before she would be shipped off for basic training.

She scuffed her sneaker in the dirt and looked to the sky. Somewhere not too far off, a bird was singing. She took another sip as she listened. There came a flittering sound, and the smudged white marbles in Beatrice's head drifted down to see a bluebird perched on a swaying branch. She felt around in the dirt for a moment and her fingers wrapped themselves around a smooth stone.

Tipping her head back, she finished off the can and crushed it, tossing it aside to join the growing pile. Then, lightning quick, she reeled her arm back and whipped the stone. It struck the bird dead-on and it dropped down to the grasses below with a light thump. Beatrice stared at the crumpled pile of grayish-blue feathers, her freckled face expressionless.

From deeper in the trees there came the sound of foliage rustling and twigs snapping underfoot. Beatrice froze as a large black dog, covered in mange and with foam dripping from his mouth, lurked into the clearing. Dipping his snarling head down, he snatched up the tiny feathered body in his jaws. The bird wildly flapped its wings as the dog's teeth sunk in. He turned to Beatrice, his eyes wild and starkly blank in the sea of dark, matted fur. She could hear the hollow crunch as his dripping jaws tightened, and the bird fell limp. Then, still carrying the little corpse, he turned and trotted back into the trees.

Beatrice jerked awake, releasing a held breath and gasping for air. There was a hand on her tense shoulder, and she looked up to see the hospital chaplain hovering above her.

"Are you alright?" he asked, his voice soft.

"Yeah." She worked on quieting her breathing, swallowed, and nodded. "Yeah, I'm okay. I think." She grunted as she stood up, ignoring the chaplain's offered hand. He stepped aside as she stumbled past, wheeling along the IV pole in her grip.

Beatrice walked down the long white corridors, her bare feet lightly sticking to the linoleum tiles, her pale blue hospital gown flowing around her, the back unfastened. At last she entered her room and laid herself back down in bed. Just as she got herself settled, a doctor stepped in.

"You have some visitors here to see you," he said.

"If they've got black uniforms and silver badges, I'm not interested." She crossed her arms, staring out the window and contemplating flinging herself out of it as she heard footsteps and shuffling through the doorway.

"You know, we'd hoped to see you not in the hospital for a change."

"Mom?" Beatrice blurted out as she whipped her head around. The room was suddenly filled with a sea of red-haired people, her tired-looking brothers and sisters, her little nieces and nephews who were little no more. At the front of the pack were her mother and father, looking a little more wrinkled and gray and hunched-over than the last time she had seen them. "Shoot, you all didn't have to come."

"It's been almost 20 years, BB, we'll take what we can get," said her father. Her mother shot him a sidelong stern look.

The hazy memory of waking up on American soil, badly sunburned and barely coherent, with her family staring down at her from all around her hospital bed, hit her like a sock to the jaw. Had it really been that long? How old was she again..?

"I, uh…" She drifted back to the present and ran a hand through her greasy hair. "I still get your holiday cards, at least."

"Oh, nevermind that," said her mother, coming up to her bedside and holding Beatrice's hand, "we're just glad you're alive."

"I called everyone up as soon as I saw your name on the news," one of her brothers said. "I couldn't believe it was you."

"I could," said her father. "You really are bound and determined to make us worry about you until the day we die, huh?" He stepped around to the other side of her bed and slapped a hand on her back, beaming at her from beneath his bushy gray mustache.

"Yeah, well…"

"Oh, hey, I brought ya somethin', kiddo," he said, setting a folded bundle of clothes in her lap. "Heard you'd be gettin' out of here soon, so I brought you some new threads. Well, new to you, anyway – they came from my closet, hopefully they fit."

"Aw, geez, you didn't have to do all that," Beatrice said, picking up the shirt and holding it out in front of her. It was a short-sleeved button-down covered in palm trees and hibiscus flowers. It was hideous. Beatrice loved it.

"The docs said they had to cut your old clothes off in the ambulance," he said. "Figured it wouldn't be proper to let ya walk out of here in your birthday suit. What kind of father would I be?"

"And you know, Beatrice, if you ever need anything, anything at all, all you have to do is reach out," said her mother. "Look around. You've got no shortage of support. I really wish you wouldn't suffer alone."

Beatrice looked out at all the awkward, smiling faces. She only knew her parents and siblings anymore from choppy, faded memories, and her nieces and nephews had all grown up without knowing their deadbeat, good-for-nothing Aunt Bea – things were better off that way. She couldn't be helped and they all knew it.

Beatrice made herself smile too. "Thanks, guys. This means a lot to me."

"I'm having second thoughts, guys."

"C'mon, Larry. You know the Lord don't appreciate doubters."

Larry sat in the back seat of the rusty old car, fidgeting with the collar of his flannel shirt. "Yeah, but… I dunno, fellas. What about 'thou shalt not kill'...?"

The man in the driver's seat turned around, a cheap rubber mask of a skull over his head. "Righteous indignation, brother."

"But… this is a hospital. What have the sick done to make God mad?"

"Somethin' bad enough for God to make 'em sick, obviously." The man riding shotgun pulled on his skull mask. "Besides, all we're doin' is… moving their souls along a little faster. They're already sick and hurting and waiting to die, we're just lettin' 'em meet God early. It's a good deed, really."

"More importantly," said the driver, "it's what Enoch expects of us. If we let Enoch down, we let the Lord down."

"Yeah… I guess you're right," said the man in the back seat, closing his eyes and putting on his mask. "Enoch wouldn't steer us wrong."

The three Potter's Field congregation members got out of the car and walked around to the back. The driver opened the rusted trunk. Lying on the stained, torn-up carpeted floor were two gritty sawed-off shotguns. Larry reached in, grabbing the weapons and handing them off to his brothers. He pulled a snub-nosed .45 revolver from the holster on his belt and shut the trunk.

Beatrice lay in her clean white sheets early that Monday morning. The world outside was still cold and pitch-black, and she rested her heavy head in her pillow. She was being discharged from the hospital later that day. Sighing, she tried to enjoy the last of her morphine drip.

The sound of a far-off gunshot drifted into her ears. She closed her eyes a little tighter and rolled over. "It's just your imagination, Beatrice," she murmured.

BOOM!

Beatrice sat up in bed. Screams and trampling footsteps echoed through the halls as more booms and pops sounded off. She frowned and grit her teeth as she listened, staring into a dark corner of her room.

The gunshots and footsteps grew louder. She closed her eyes. "Don't be a hero, Beatrice." She pressed a finger into one of her wounds as a reminder.

The footsteps sounded like they were coming from the end of the hallway outside her room. "Don't." She dug the finger in deeper.

A door opened somewhere and several more shots popped off. The footsteps grew louder. A growl rose up in Beatrice's throat as she hoisted herself out of bed, slowly wheeling her IV pole over to the door.

"In here," a muffled voice said.

Begrudgingly, she disconnected her IV line and lifted the stainless-steel pole, gripping it in both hands like a club. She stood beside the door, the light from the hallway pouring in through the small rectangular window. She bent her knees and dropped to a fighting stance, her heart pounding. She was breathing hard and her chest hurt. She was tired.

The door opened, and a man pointing a revolver and wearing a rubber skull mask stepped in. Beatrice swung as hard as she could, and the pole cracked with a thumping metallic clang into the gunman's head. He groaned and dropped his weapon as he fell forward. Beatrice dropped the pole, and it clattered to the floor as she reached out and snatched him by the collar. She kicked the gun away and pulled him into a chokehold, holding him closely in front of her.

The hallway light was blinding, but as her eyes adjusted, she saw two more masked figures, both pointing shotguns at her. The man in her arms began to stir, squirming in her grip and shaking his head, whimpering. From beneath the mask, blood streamed down his neck and stained the collar of his flannel shirt. The other men lowered their weapons.

Beatrice's eyes drifted past them to the end of the hall. Then she heard the boots pounding against the linoleum. She tossed the body down and dove for cover in the room as the police opened fire.

She sat at the side of her bed, arms wrapped around her knees as she gasped for air. A little pool of crimson crept in through the doorway, sliding around the one gunman's twitching body and soaking into the fabric of his faded flannel and blue jeans. A pair of black boots stepped over him and waded through the blood.

Beatrice looked up. Officer Jones stared back at the woman in her hospital gown on the floor and lowered her pistol. "You again, huh?"

"Me again."

She nodded curtly to Beatrice and turned out of the room, barking an order to the other officers before they turned and stampeded down another hallway. Beatrice lowered her head to her knees and fell asleep right there.

Several hours later, the police finished their search and the lockdown on the hospital ended. Beatrice ditched the hospital gown for a slightly-too-tight floral print shirt, faded blue jeans, and her falling-apart sneakers, flecked with dried blood, that the EMTs managed to salvage from her body several nights before. She walked through the hospital lobby, swarming with police officers and nurses wrapped in shock blankets, and made her way to the front door. She was stopped by a hand on her shoulder, and she turned to see Officer Jones looking up at her.

"Am I free to go, officer?"

"Of course. I just wanted to, y'know… thank you. For your bravery. Again." Sara looked away. "Um. Sorry this keeps happening to you."

Beatrice cracked a sly little grin. "Hey, at least it wasn't me getting mowed down this time."

"Speaking of which, try not to do anything too strenuous for a while, okay? You need to let those wounds heal."

She gave her a little salute. "Yes, ma'am."

Sara realized her hand was still resting on Beatrice's absurdly firm shoulder. She quickly gave her a friendly pat and let her walk away.

Beatrice pushed through the glass double doors and stepped out into the early morning sunshine. She took a deep breath, deep enough to make her lungs hurt, and released it. For better or for worse, she was still alive.

She looked out over the parking lot. A line of policemen stood holding back a mob of reporters. Sighing, she stood taller and made her hands into fists as she strode out into the madness. Two of the policemen nodded to her as they stepped aside to let her through. Immediately, there were cameras and microphones in Beatrice's face.

One particularly persistent reporter followed her as she pushed through the crowd. "Here on the scene we have Beatrice Lynch, the incredible woman who stopped the hospital shooters just hours ago. According to our sources, she was in the hospital from injuries she received while stopping the shooting at the Dark Lantern bar just last week. Ms. Lynch, what do you have to say about these chaotic times?"

"Go to hell."

The reporter pulled the microphone away. "These shocking events must be too much for her to bear. How many more people in our nation must be traumatized like this before our government-"

Beatrice whipped around and shoved both of her middle fingers in front of the camera lens. The crowd backed away from her, cameras flashing, and Beatrice huffed as she broadened her shoulders and walked down the street.

The sparse chatter floating through the sun-warmed air of the little mom-and-pop diner quieted as soon as Beatrice came through the doors. The few scattered patrons stared at the redheaded floral-printed behemoth as she strode in and took a seat at a booth by a window. She sat with her fingers laced together, hands resting on the table, and she didn't look at the waitress who walked up beside her. "Coffee. Black," Beatrice said, and the waitress frowned as she scurried off.

Beatrice leaned back in the booth and glanced over to the front counter. Sighing, she stood up and walked over, sticking her thumbs through her belt loops as she stood in front of the cashier. "Y'all got a phone I can use?"

The wiry middle-aged woman nodded and slid the chunky old push button telephone across the counter. Beatrice picked up the handset, punched in the familiar number, and leaned back as it rang.

"Dr. Marshall's office."

"Hey, Wirt."

"Oh my Go- Beatrice? I heard about what happened on the radio this morning, a-are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Hey, listen, are you busy right now?"

"No, I don't have another appointment for an hour or so. What's going on..?"

"I'm at the little diner right now, the one on the corner of Birch and Washington. Come get breakfast with me."

"Uh, I- alright, I'll be there in a minute. Bye."

Beatrice hung up the phone and dipped her chin to the cashier. When she got back to her table, a white mug of steaming black coffee was there waiting for her. She sat down with a light oof and took a long, slow drink, eyes closed. When she opened them again, she found herself locking eyes with a small, pale young woman with dark, shoulder-length hair, sitting in a booth at the other side of the diner across from a large older woman. The older woman said something, and the girl coughed and blinked her deer-in-headlights expression away, mumbling a response while shooting little intermittent glances at Beatrice.

Beatrice's copper brows furrowed. She recognized the girl from somewhere… Maybe she saw her in a dream? She chased a few fleeting thoughts before shaking her head and returning her attention to her brew.

Several quiet minutes went by. Beatrice went to take a sip from her empty mug.

"Hey, Beatrice."

She jumped and the ceramic coffee mug clattered noisily to the table. Wirt took a cautious step back. "Shoot, Wirt, don't sneak up on me like that," Beatrice grumbled.

"Sorry, Bea," Wirt said softly as he slid into the worn, cracking faux-leather seat. "Um… How are you doing?"

"I'm fine. I'd be better if I could get some service in here," she said, shooting a dirty look at the waitress. The waitress gave her an equally dirty look as she walked over to the table, coffee pot in hand, and refilled Beatrice's mug.

The waitress turned to Wirt. "Can I get you anything?"

"I'll just have, some, uh… Juice."

"…Orange?"

"Uh, yeah, whatever."

The server shook her head as she walked away. Wirt rapped his thin fingers against the table, staring off into space. He looked up at Beatrice, who was staring down into the steaming blackness. "So, uh…" He rested his jaw against the knuckles of his propped-up hand. "What's on your mind?"

"Nothin'."

"Come on, Beatrice, you know you can talk to me."

She shook her head. "I dunno. I just been thinkin'." She took a sip of her coffee. "This country ain't what it was like when I was a kid, y'know?"

"Yeah…" Wirt scratched at the whiskers on his face. "Yeah, I know what you mean."

"Or, who knows, maybe things were always this way and I was just too stupid to notice. But I don't think so."

"Well, you've been through a lot-"

"And then that just gets me thinkin', like, is this really the country I spent…" She stopped to count on her fingers. "…Fourteen years of my life fighting for?"

"Beatrice…"

"It's like, gee, thanks for defending our American way of life – how it ended up in the middle of the desert, I don't know – but now we're gonna shoot ya."

"You weren't being targeted, Beatrice, it was just… well, I don't wanna say bad luck, but… a couple unfortunate circumstances – w-which you survived! It's like when we were talking about your purpose the other day-"

"Hah, yeah, my purpose. So what?" She shut her eyes and took a sip of coffee. "Did I survive getting shot at by terrorists just so I could come home and get shot at by cops and backwater freaks in Halloween masks? I'm tired of gettin' shot at, man!"

"I mean, uh… How many more times could it possibly happen?"

"Don't jinx it, Wirt."

"Weren't you just telling me how much you wished you could be back in the 'heat of the moment'? What happened to that?"

Her face hardened and she sunk down into her seat. "Turns out I'm not 30 anymore, Wirt. I'm not out flying fighter jets; I'm at home spending half the day in bed because my back hurts. It was all just wishful thinking. I can see that now."

"Beatrice, you've seen more action in a few days than most people see in their whole lives. That means something."

"Look, I don't wanna talk about it anymore," she said, pushing her mug aside and standing up. "Coffee's kickin' anyway. If the waitress comes back, tell her I want a couple eggs and some toast. And, hell, a side of bacon too. It's not like my cholesterol can get any worse."

Wirt sunk down in his seat. "But Beatrice-"

"Just do it!" she said, walking away.

Beatrice stood at the sink, running her hands under the faucet for a second before flicking the water away and wiping her hands on her pants. The bathroom door opened and she saw a smallish figure walk by out of the corner of her eye. She looked up and her gaze met with the pale woman's again. Flustered, the younger woman turned and began to walk back out of the restroom. "Hey!" Beatrice barked. The woman froze.

"Ah, y-yes?"

"I swear I recognize you from somewhere, and I can't for the life of me remember where. You know how they say the mind's the first thing to go. Anyway, it's been buggin' me this whole time."

Lorna gave a sheepish laugh. "I- I believe we met at the bar the other night."

"Oh, yeah, that's right, because right afterword-" Beatrice stopped when Lorna's expression became anxious. "Um. Anyways… Nice seeing you again." She stepped past the shorter woman and was reaching for the door when she felt a slender-fingered hand on her back. She looked over her shoulder.

"I just wanted to thank you for saving me," Lorna said, her head angled down towards the floor and her hand stroking over the soft fabric of Beatrice's shirt. "I live with my Auntie, and if I weren't around, she… Well, I don't know what she'd do."

A gentle smile spread across Beatrice's tired face. "Hey, it was, uh… The least I could do."

Lorna took Beatrice by the hand. "I'm sure my Auntie would appreciate meeting you," she said.

"Well…" The sweet look on Lorna's face was pretty convincing. "Alright."

Beatrice pulled open the door and the two walked out together, with Lorna's arm resting in the small of the taller woman's back. Beatrice glanced down at her. The girl was clingy. How cute.

They stopped in front of the booth where the big lady was sitting. "Auntie Whispers," Lorna said, "There's someone I'd like you to meet."

The lady fixed her bulbous eyes on the redhead, sniffling with her big pink nose, and Beatrice wondered how in the world the two could have possibly been related. "Ohh, Lorna, who is this?" she said, her voice deep and slow as a stagnant river.

"Auntie, this is Beatrice," Lorna said, "she's the one who stopped the shooter the other day."

Beatrice offered her hand, and Ms. Whispers took it feebly. "So, you saved my Lorna. She told me all about it… every little detail." She pressed her wrinkled lips together in a thin, uncomfortable smile. "I can't thank you enough. Now if only you could keep her out of trouble…"

"Auntie," Lorna said.

"Hush, child," said Ms. Whispers. She looked back up at Beatrice. "Well, anyway, thank you again for letting my Lorna come home safely. I love her like she were my own daughter. Tell me, how can I repay you?

"Uh…" Dollar signs flashed very briefly in Beatrice's mind. She scratched the back of her neck and shook the thought away. "Don't worry about it."

"Are you sure? It would really be nothing, I assure you…" Ms. Whispers dipped her hand into her purse and waved several hundred-dollar bills.

Beatrice swallowed hard, glancing down at Lorna. Beatrice's suspicions from the other night were confirmed: she clearly came from money, big money. What was she doing hanging around at a place like the Dark Lantern? "I… can't accept that…"

"Of course you can, dear. It's the least I can give," the old lady said, taking Beatrice's hand and pressing the crisp bills into it.

"Only if you're sure," Beatrice said, already snaking the cash into her pocket. Ms. Whispers nodded with a smile. "Uh… Thank you."

"Certainly. You take care now, Beatrice. It was a pleasure meeting you."

"You too," Beatrice said before walking away. She was embarrassed to pocket a stranger's money like that, but she was in no position to refuse it. If a degenerate's head carried a price tag of $200, she'd gladly hack off many more.

She slid back into her seat across from Wirt, who was watching her with a dumbfounded expression. "What was that?" he asked.

"Funny story, actually. Remember that one chick from the bar the other night? The slutty one? I ran into her in the bathroom a little bit ago. Said she wanted to introduce me to her Auntie. Very generous woman." Beatrice took a sip of coffee and picked up her fork. "Breakfast is on me. Now eat up, kid, you could use some meat on them bones."

"No way," Wirt said, craning his neck around to get a look at the two women.

"Staring is rude, Wirt."

"Sorry," he said, going back to picking at his food. After a moment's thought, he looked up at her again, a hopeful look gleaming through his dark eyebags. "See, Beatrice? You make a difference in peoples' lives. It all comes back to you eventually." Beneath his long, patchy whiskers, he gave her a hesitant yet warm smile.

Beatrice looked away, nibbling on a piece of bacon. "Cut the crap, Wirt," she said, but she couldn't stop the little smirk from creeping up on her face.

Wirt's car sat by the curb in front of the shabby little convenience store down the street from Beatrice's apartment. "Hey, thanks again for breakfast," he said. "Are you doing anything later?"

"What do you think?" Beatrice said, her right hand gripping the door handle.

"I was just wondering if you'd want to come by our place for dinner later."

She was planning on just picking up something quick from the store, but an actual home-cooked meal sounded much, much better. "Sure."

"Cool, I'll pick you up around six," Wirt said, flashing a little smile.

"See ya." She opened the door and groaned as she pulled herself out of the cramped seat, pushing the door shut behind her. Wirt drove away and she shook out her aching knees as she passed through the empty parking lot, with dry dead weeds wisping up through cracks in its asphalt.

The pudgy teenaged cashier behind the counter had his attention wrapped up in the droning of the little radio sitting by the register. "Four dead and six injured in the shooting that took place this morning at the Our Lady of Benevolence Hospital… A patient named Beatrice Lynch was able to stop the gunmen until police arrived… All three perpetrators were shot dead at the scene…" He heard the bell over the door jingle and mumbled out a "welcome."

A moment later, he heard a woman clear her throat. He looked up to see the tall redhead standing in front of the counter with her burly, tattooed arms crossed and her brow creased. "Oh, sorry 'bout that," the clerk said, reaching over and turning the radio down. "What can I get you?"

"Pack of American Spirit Blue and a lighter," she said. She watched the clerk as he scanned cluelessly over the wall of cigarettes. "Down a little, to your right. No, your other right." She sighed. "Look where I'm pointing. Yeah, right there."

He placed the pack of smokes and an American flag-patterned Bic lighter on the counter. "I'll need to see your ID, ma'am," he said.

"That's cute."

"No, really, it's company policy."

"And here I was thinking you were trying to flatter me," she said, digging into her pocket. She pulled out a beat-up trifold leather wallet and flipped it open, holding it up in front of his face.

He squinted his eyes and leaned in as he peered at the driver's license behind a thin plastic film. It had expired in 2005, and there was a small Armed Forces designation printed in the bottom right. He was formulating the words to refuse the sale without getting his face chewed off when he noticed the name on the license: LYNCH, BEATRICE MORGAN.

"Woah… Y'know what?" he said, sliding the goods across the counter. "It's on the house."

"Oh, wow, uh… Thanks," she said, grabbing up the lighter and the cigarettes and shoving them into her shirt pocket.

"Hey, actually, wait here a sec." He dashed out from behind the counter and Beatrice turned to watch him as he jogged down an aisle and disappeared through a heavy door at the back of the store.

The clerk stepped into the breakroom and pulled open the refrigerator door. His manager was sitting in a flimsy white plastic chair at a flimsy white plastic table smoking a joint. He looked over slowly and shifted his poofy hair out of his face. "Heeeyyy," he said, his voice grating, "it's not time for your break yet, is it?"

"Jason, you're never gonna believe who just came in," said the cashier, reaching into the fridge and pulling out a can of Monster Ultra Blue.

"Who?" Jason took another hit and puffed out a little smoke ring. "Woah, did you see that?"

"Yeah, that was sick, sir," the clerk said. He shut the door and turned to leave. "It's that one lady from all the news clippings you've been hoarding."

Jason coughed. "What?!" He stood up from the table, knocking his chair over in the process. "No wayy! Greg, are you serious?"

"Yessir," he said.

"Oh my God," Jason said, running his hands through his hair. "Wellll, what does she want?"

"She was just buyin' some cigarettes. Thought I'd give her a little token of 'ppreciation, with her being a local celebrity and all," he said, holding up the can. "Unless you'd like to..?"

"No, man, just get back out there," he said, ushering the clerk out of the breakroom. Jason took another hit of his joint before tucking it into his shirt pocket and following Greg through the door.

Beatrice had just finished sneaking several candy bars from the impulse buy shelf into her pocket when the cashier jogged up to her, panting. "Here," he said, holding up the tall aluminum can, "I was gonna have this during my break, but you deserve it more."

"I dunno about all that, kid," she said, taking the can and scanning over it warily. "Is this what the kids are drinking these days?" she thought to herself.

"C'mon, you're a local hero! You don't have to be humble," he said, beaming at her.

Beatrice made a low grumbling sound. "I'm not- okay. Thanks," she said, turning and heading for the doors.

"Uh, take it easy," said the clerk, giving a little wave. The bell over the door jingled again and he watched as she walked through the parking lot while sipping on the Monster.

Jason stepped out of an aisle and stood in front of the door, staring down the street. He grabbed a newspaper from the rack and glanced down at it. Horrific Hospital Shooting Leaves Residents and Patients Shaken, the big headline on the front page read. "Wait a minute, man. That's not possible…" said Jason, holding out the paper for Greg to see. "That just happened this morning. How is it already in today's paper?"

"Humm. Well, maybe- no, wait…" Greg crossed his arms. "Hm. That's a thinker."

"It's just like I've been trying to tell you, man," said Jason as he flipped through the pages. He stopped and tapped his finger against a small block of text tucked away at the end of the local news section. "Look. A paragraph. All Edelwood gets is a paragraph. Two weeks ago, he was on the front page."

Greg leaned in to see. "Maybe nothing interesting's happened in the case..?"

Jason shook his head. "That's what they want you to think." He flipped back to the front page and scanned over the main article. His eyes widened as he read a particular passage: "Beatrice Lynch, the war veteran and hero responsible for stopping the Dark Lantern shooting last week, was recovering from injuries sustained during that prior incident when the gunmen entered the hospital. She was tragically caught in the crossfire once more and shot dead."

"Is somethin' wrong, sir?"

"Greg," Jason said, looking up, "do you believe in ghosts?"

The reddish light of the evening sun dripped in through the blinds of the tiny office behind the stage of the church. Reverend Enoch dwarfed the heavy wooden desk he slumped over, head bowed and eyes closed. He had his elbows bent and his laced hands pressed against his forehead.

The phone at the corner of the desk began to ring. Enoch sat up slowly in his soft leather chair and pulled a cigar box from the desk drawer. Setting it down, he slipped a brass Zippo lighter out of his suit pocket, the metal engraving of a cat hunting a bird in a grassy meadow glimmering in a thin beam of sunlight. Taking one of the fat cigars from the box between his thumb and forefinger, he lit the end and took a few puffs, then held it in his teeth as he picked up the phone.

"Enoch, my favorite holy man," crooned the old woman on the other end.

"Adelaide."

"It was so nice of you to send three of your big, strong boys to help clean up my yard."

Enoch furrowed his brow and clenched the cigar in his molars, a little wisp of smoke curling around his bald head.

"Unfortunately, they wore themselves out before they could finish the job. They didn't get around to clearing out the poison oak. You know, those bright red leaves I told you about."

"Mmh." He rubbed his temple. Slipping the lighter back out of his pocket, he held it in his hand, contemplating the Bible verse inscribed on the other side. He angled it so the script glowed in the sunlight. "You told me the 'leaves' were dangerous, I don't know what more you expect. Maybe you should call the professionals to take care of that."

"Oh, Enoch, don't sell your lovely little congregation short. How will they be able to tend to the Garden of Eden if they can't even take care of an old woman's yard?"

"Enough, Adelaide. I'm not expending any more of my flock on your stupid…" He shifted the cigar in his teeth. "…Landscaping."

"Don't sound so certain about that, Enoch. I'm sure once you see your payment you'll change your mind. It should be arriving any moment now."

"I don't want your money!"

Adelaide laughed. "I look forward to doing business with you in the future."

"Adelaide!" Enoch roared, heart hammering in his chest. He slunk back into the chair, phone pressed against his head as the dial tone droned in his ear. The ashes from the end of his cigar dropped and crumbled against his chest.

A knocking echoed through the church, and Enoch sat up. He slammed the phone down and stashed the cigar box back in its spot in the drawer. He rose from his seat, brushing off his suit with a few swipes of his large hands and straightening out his collar. Pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, he opened the office door and strode through the church.

He took a deep breath as stood before the large wooden double doors at the end of the room. He pushed them open, eyes closed.

"Uh, hi," he heard a small voice say. He looked down to see a girl with long brown hair, her hands stuffed in the pockets of her black hoodie. She stared up at him with dark, lost eyes.

"Hello," Enoch said. "What can I do for you, miss?"

"Sorry, I know it's a weird time," she said, looking away and tucking her hair behind her ear, "but I don't really know where else to go."

A pang went through his heart. He had never seen such a sad-looking young person in all his days. "Why don't you come in?" he said, stepping aside and holding the door open for her.

The petite young woman sat beside the gentle giant at the end of a long pew. "What's weighing on your heart?" Enoch asked.

"My dad's just been so depressed," she said. "It's his work that's getting to him."

"What does he do?"

"He's an attorney. He won't tell me much about it. All I know is that he's defending someone really bad."

Enoch's jaw tightened ever so slightly. "I see."

"And he's been so stressed out about all the stuff that's been going on in the news lately. It's like he's taking it personally."

"It's only natural for a father to worry," Enoch said.

"Yeah, he'd have a fit if he knew I left the house." She stared straight down into her lap, her slight fingers fidgeting with the hem of her long gray skirt. "Sorry for bothering you with all this stuff. It's just… my dad's all I have left. I just want to know how to help him."

The pastor placed a hand on her shoulder. She looked up at him, and the setting harvest sun shone brilliantly through the stained glass window on the opposite wall, the colored light glowing around the top of his head. "God called you to this place, and you answered" he said. "Now it's your turn to call out to Him. The Lord gives us all trials and tribulations, child, yourself and your father included. But He will never give you more than you can bear."

The girl went back to staring into her lap. Enoch reached into his pocket and handed her the brass lighter. "Read this, child," he said, sitting back and closing his eyes.

"Psalm 23:4… Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil… for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff… they comfort me."

A warm, wide smile settled upon the reverend's face. "Always remember that," he said, "and you will never be defeated. There are evil men out there; demonic spirits pulling the strings and trying to lead us astray. And there's no doubt they're trying to take hold of you and your father. But one day…" He stood up from the pew and paced to stand in the radiant light pooled on the floor below the window, arms crossed behind his back. "One day, the Lord will give you the strength to kill them."

"Kill them?"

"String them up. Cut their heads off. Make them pay for their wicked ways."

His words hung in the air. He coughed into his fist. "…Perhaps I'm getting ahead of myself," he said, walking back over to the girl and holding out his palm. She placed the lighter there and he stared at it for a moment before slipping it back into his pocket. "That's the fire of the Holy Spirit for you. Say, what's your name?"

"Anna," she said.

"Anna," he said, "we'd be more than happy to have you join us for our Wednesday night service. Get you better acquainted with the Holy Spirit. He can do great things for you, and I'm sure you can do great things for Him."

A gleam entered her gloomy eyes, and a light smile set upon her lips. "Yeah, that would be great," she said, standing up. "Thank you so much."

The reverend offered his hand, and the girl's frigid fingers burned against his warm, dark skin as they shook. He walked her to the door and pushed against the cross embossed in the wood, and she gave him a small wave as she walked away down the empty street.

In the distance, he heard tires against the pavement. He turned his head to see a black '78 Mustang slowly rolling up by the curb in front of the church. The doors opened and two masked figures stepped out and walked around to the trunk. The smaller of the two, a woman in a skeletal banshee mask and a long forest green dress, reached in and struggled to sling an oblong black nylon bag over her shoulder. She approached Enoch and her companion, a burly man in a leather horse mask, followed behind her. He carried a large ammo crate.

"If this is supposed to be some pathetic attempt at macabre humor," Enoch said, shifting his eyes between the two, "I don't appreciate it."

"You haven't even seen the punchline yet," the banshee-woman said, grunting as she slipped the case off her shoulder and shoved it into Enoch's arms. She stepped aside and the horse man handed him the ammo crate.

"You are young and foolish, Lorna," Enoch said, "and I pray dearly that you'll regret it one day."

She gave him a coy head tilt and daintily held her hand over her mouth. "There's plenty more where that came from, Reverend," she said. She turned and walked back to the car, and the horse man lingered for a moment, his empty black eyes searching Enoch's face before he followed her. The Mustang motored away and Enoch shut the door.

He carried the goods down the center aisle of the church, setting them down before the altar and kneeling. His hands hovered over the lid of the ammo crate. Taking a deep breath, he slowly flipped it open. His eyes grew large at the sight: the crate was filled to the brim, with the top layer comprised of small, shiny pistols. He gently lifted one out and released the magazine. Fully loaded. He pushed some of the pistols aside to find several belts of .308 bullets gleaming at him. Breathing heavily, he dug deeper. The bottom of the crate was lined with stacks of hundred dollar bills.

He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and polished his glasses. With a shaking hand, he placed them back on his nose and unzipped the gun case. Laying there swaddled in black nylon was an M60. Enoch bowed his head and lifted his hands to the golden dust floating through the last rays of evening sun.

The apartment was quiet except for the bubbling of water in a pot. Beatrice swirled the deep red wine around her chipped glass as she sat at the plain kitchen table.

"They say that stuff's supposed be good for your heart, you know." Beatrice turned her head to see Wirt dumping the angel hair pasta into a strainer in the sink.

"Yeah," she said, taking a tiny sip and pursing her lips before setting the glass back down. "Never was too big on red wines, though. I'll never understand how somebody was able to take a grape and make it taste that bitter."

"Don't you take your coffee black, though?"

"That's different." She rubbed her finger around the rim of the glass. "You know, the kid at the convenience store earlier gave me one of those energy drinks… Beast, I think it was called?"

"You mean Monster?"

"Yeah, Monster, that was it. Gave me a real nice pep and tasted like berries. I dunno if I can go back to drinking coffee now."

"My brother Greg is obsessed with those things. He must drink, like, three a day. I tell him that can't be good for him but he doesn't listen," Wirt said, divvying out the spaghetti onto three plates. He looked over his shoulder. "You know, I think he mentioned getting a job at a convenience store. Maybe you saw him today."

"Maybe." She took another sip of the wine. "Might head back up there tomorrow. I'll tell him you said hi."

Wirt was setting the plates at the table when the door to the apartment opened. "Oh," Sara said, stepping in and shrugging out of her bulletproof vest, "am I interrupting something?" She smiled, but her words carried the tiniest bit of edge.

Wirt ran a hand through his hair. "Shoot. I'm sorry, babe, I forgot to tell you," he said, walking over and kissing her cheek, "I invited Beatrice over for dinner. You're just in time, though." He took the vest from her and carried it down the hall to the bedroom.

Sara sat down to Beatrice's right at the table. "Busy day?" the redhead said in-between bites.

She exhaled through her nose, smirking. "Only a little bit busier than yours."

"Did the police department say anything about compensation?"

Sara looked away. "I asked. They said no."

"Figures."

Wirt paced back into the kitchen adjoining the dining area. "Is zinfandel alright?" he said, reaching up into a cabinet and grabbing another glass.

"Yeah, that's fine," Sara said, and a moment later her boyfriend set the full wine glass down beside her plate and took his seat at Beatrice's left.

The three ate quietly. After a while, Wirt looked up and noticed Beatrice staring into her dinner. "Not hungry?" he said, taking a sip of wine. "Or is it just no good? I know I'm not the greatest cook."

Beatrice said nothing, her eyes fixed on the slippery reddened noodles that writhed as she pushed her fork around. Writhing. Red, slick, and writhing.

"…You feeling okay?" Sara said.

She stabbed at her dinner. "I heard once that getting shot in the stomach is the most painful way to die."

"What?"

"Christ on a cracker," she hissed, scratching at her face. She looked up at Sara with wild eyes. "Sorry. Where's your bathroom?"

"…Down the hall, on the left."

"Thanks. 'Scuze me," she said, quickly standing up and heading down the hallway with her head down, aggressively scratching her neck.

The bathroom door slammed shut and locked. Sara looked to Wirt. "What the hell was that?"

Wirt was holding his head in his hands. "Not again," he groaned.

Beatrice stood in front of the mirror, staring into her own unfamiliar eyes as she reached into her shirt and pulled out the morphine IV bag she smuggled from the hospital. She took a needle from her pocket and drew out some of the fluid, then tucked the bag away and buttoned her shirt back up. Undoing her belt, she wrapped it around her bicep, bit down into the black leather, and pulled.

Her frown softened and her jaws loosened as the sweetness entered her bloodstream. It was the most beautiful way to die.

Sara glanced down the hall. "She's not shooting up in there, is she..?"

Wirt sighed. "Yeah…"

"Aren't you supposed to, like… Make sure she doesn't do that?"

Wirt slouched and drank his wine.

Beatrice adjusted her belt as she stepped out of the hallway. She retook her spot at the kitchen table and sighed, a contented smile on her face. "What'd I miss?"

"Beatrice," Wirt said, wringing his hands, "is there anything you'd like to talk about?"

"Yeah," she said, picking up her fork, "what kind of spaghetti sauce is this? It's really good."

"Oh, it's homemade, actually! I found this nice recipe online-" Sara kicked him under the table. "Ow. I mean, um, is anything else on your mind?"

"Nope. Jus' grateful to be in good company, with some good food."

"Aw, shucks, Bea- Beatrice! Come on, you're not fooling anyone. We all know what you were doing in there."

She tugged at her collar. "Yeesh, sorry. Guess the hospital food wasn't sittin' right."

"Do you have anyone else in your life you can talk to about this?"

"…My bowel movements?"

He slapped one of his hands on the table, tugging on his hair with the other. "Heroin, Beatrice! Your heroin habit! I know, you know, Sara knows, we all know you have a problem, and I can't help you with it if you won't stop talking about BMs!"

"Oh, so now you're ratting me out to the cop!"

"That is the least of your problems, Beatrice, and frankly I think you ought to address my girlfriend with a little more respect."

"It's fine, Wirt," Sara said quietly.

"No, it's not fine," Wirt said. "Beatrice, for once, please just listen to me. You're 50 years old, you're hooked on heroin, you're unemployed, and you live alone. If you don't start putting in the minimal amount of effort to help yourself…" The redhead was glaring at him, and he suddenly felt very small. "You're… Um…"

"I'm what, Wirt? I'm what? I'm gonna die? Is that what you're so afraid of? You're afraid I'm gonna kick it before you can fix me and feel good about yourself?"

"I'm sorry Beatrice, I didn't mean-"

"You're afraid your fancy doctorate degree is gonna go to waste, huh? Well don't you worry your little head, because if bullets aren't gonna kill me, then nothin' will," she said, crossing her arms. "I've got a whole eternity of bad decisions ahead of me, bub. You're stuck with me."

"Look, Beatrice, I get it. You've defied the odds, you cheated death, you're some wonderful mistake of nature. That's great, more power to you. Shouldn't that make you want to… I don't know, do something more fulfilling with your life than just sitting around getting high?"

"Are you really trying to push that 'purpose' crap on me again, Wirt? Do you tell all your other patients the same exact thing every week?"

"You know what? Fine. Let me sum it all up for you," Wirt said, finishing his wine and pushing the glass aside. "You can never accept anything good that happens to you because you've trapped yourself in this little prison of isolation and escapism. You've got this all-or-nothing mindset, Bea, and I'm here to tell you that there's more to life than killing people and hard drugs."

"Why should I bother with anything else?" she sneered. "Why is anything else worth my valuable time?"

"You need more healthy human interaction, and obviously I'm not helping. Either spend more time with your family or go out and get a girlfriend."

"I- what?" she said, her face suddenly flushing. "Now hold on, just where did you get the idea that I'm-"

"I thought looking up a girl's skirt was a pretty good indication."

"I- I- I…" She looked away, folding into herself. "Wirt, I was drunk. A-and don't you dare try to turn that around on me, I was trying to help you!"

"…Help him with what?" Sara said, slowly.

They both looked up at her. Beatrice glanced over at Wirt, who had a deer in headlights stare and was looking about as pale as the off-white wall behind him.

"You know what!" Beatrice said. "On that note, I think I'm gonna head out." She quickly shoveled a few more forkfuls of spaghetti into her mouth and stepped away from the table. "Thanks for dinner, have a nice life," she mumbled as she slammed the door to the apartment.

Beatrice kicked a crushed beer can down the sidewalk and flicked the ashes from the end of her cigarette. Stupid Wirt and his stupid cop girlfriend, she thought as she inhaled. Girlfriend. The word repulsed her. Blowing out a cloud of smoke, she dropped the spent cigarette butt, stepped on it, and shoved her fists into her pockets.

She looked to the street. There was a car slowly rolling by from the opposite direction. Under the streetlight, she caught a glimpse through the tinted windows. The driver and passenger were both wearing masks and staring her down. She tensed, craning her neck to watch them drive away. She shuddered and walked a little faster the rest of the way home.

When she got to her apartment, Beatrice noticed a flier taped to the door. She looked around. There weren't fliers on any of the other doors. She pulled it off, entered her apartment, and went straight for her bedroom.

Flopping down in her bed, she held the flier out above her face. There was a picture of skeletons kneeling before a cross on the front. "The summer is past, the harvest is ended, and we are not saved," it read. "Visit the Church of the Potter's Field and become known to God."

She set the flier on her nightstand and turned out the light. The words and the masked faces flashed in her mind as she nodded off.