The white truck Martin drove wasn't exactly clean, but there were no stains of unknown origin or bothersome odors. Jeff was sandwiched between Martin and Evelyn, with the air vent and the radio blasting directly in his face.

"Hey, is the music bothering you?"

"I don't mind..."

Martin turned the volume down anyway. Van Halen's "Runnin' With the Devil" faded to a muffled hum.

"Today is Sunday, isn't it?" Evelyn asked, turning her face away from the passing scenery.

"Yeah," Jeff answered. A rosary was strung up around the rearview mirror, the crucifix hanging down and the wooden beads softly clinking together.

"Do you go to church, Jeff?"

"Uh..." At eighteen, he hadn't been to church since he was six years old. At thirty-four, he never missed a sermon.

Martin laughed. "What does that mean?"

"It's hard to explain."

"Well, let's simplify it, then—did you go to church last Sunday?"

It took him several moments to answer. His memory was split—in some ways, he felt like two different people inhabiting the same body.

"Yeah. I just don't remember what the sermon was about."

But he knew he had underlined 1 Chronicles 28:9 in his Bible.

"Which church do you go to?" Evelyn asked, her blue eyes drawn to him with interest.

"Church of Christ."

"So do I!"

"I'm carrying a brother and sister, then," Martin said, his eyes on the road.

Evelyn smiled. "I never had a brother before. Do you have any siblings, Jeff?"

"A younger brother."

"I've got an older sister. We get along pretty well, though I wouldn't say she's my best friend or anything. Are you and your brother close?"

"He's six years younger than me."

"Oh. How old are you?"

"Eighteen, I think."

Martin snorted. "You think?"

"I must be eighteen," Jeff mumbled, looking down at his hands. His nails were worn down to a nub.

"I haven't got any siblings," Martin interjected with a grin.

"What about your son?"

Evelyn looked up. "Huh?"

"You said you had a son," Jeff continued.

"Oh, no. I'm only seventeen. That was just in the dream I told you about."

"Were you married in the dream?"

"I don't remember. Why are you asking?"

He shrugged. "Just wondering."

Martin turned the wheel. "I bet you're also wondering how we came to be traveling together."

Jeff didn't particularly care, but he didn't say anything.

"It's a long story," Evelyn muttered, running a hand through her hair. Her expression was distracted, like something was bothering her.

"And it's a long drive. Might as well tell the tale."

She lowered her hand slowly, trailing it through her hair, then dropped it into her lap. "I woke up one morning with this urge to leave. No destination, just that I needed to go. So I got in the car and started driving. I figured I'd go to Chicago. But then my car broke down, and that's when he showed up."

"And it turned out that I just so happened to be on my way to Chicago too," Martin added.

"You never did tell me why," she said, frowning.

"Business trip. Deliveries and such. You might say I'm a courier."

"Why Chicago?" Jeff asked, his brow furrowing.

"Um, well—it just seemed like a good idea, I guess," she replied, tucking her hair behind her ear. "Why are you going to Milwaukee?"

"To see my grandma."

"I thought you said you didn't have anywhere to go."

"I lied."

"So all that stuff you said about not having any family or friends was a bunch of bunk?"

"My grandma's different."

"More like your mother than your own mom?"

"There's nothing wrong with my mother."

Evelyn's voice softened. "Does she know where you are?"

He imagined Joyce worrying about him. Her bouts of illness and nervous fits tended to be brought on by stress. But she still had her favorite son David, and if Lionel hadn't reached her yet...

"She probably doesn't even know I'm gone."

The silence that followed was pierced by Martin putting the turn signal on. Evelyn leaned her head back against the seat. Her blue eyes were melancholic.

"What's your grandma like?"

"Well, she's very kind, sweet, loving. I guess you'd call her the perfect grandmother."

When he showed up at her doorstep, unannounced and uncalled for, would she even accept him? What would he do if she didn't want him?

"She sounds wonderful."

Martin began fiddling with the radio dials again, changing the station. The conversation had died out, but Jeff didn't want to talk anymore. He had lapsed into private musings, lost in his own little world.

His grandfather had died a few days after he turned eleven. He remembered Lionel telling him about it, and reminiscing about the days when they had all lived together in West Allis. Jeff had been only a baby then, a baby whose mother wouldn't allow him to be touched for fear of germs. She wouldn't even touch him herself, except to change his diaper or pose for a photo...

"And as I lost control, I swore I'd sell my soul for one love, who would sing my song—"

Jeff opened his eyes. "What's that?"

"One love, who would sing my song," the radio crooned, accompanied by a lonely piano, "and lay beside me while we dream..."

"What's that song?" he repeated, louder.

"The jockey will tell us in a minute."

"All my dreams are lost, and I can't sleep... and sleep alone could ease my mind..."

"It's a pretty melody," Evelyn said. "But the lyrics are a little strange..."

"Not that anybody cares about lyrics anymore," Martin muttered glumly.

The music faded away, and the DJ informed them that it was "Faust", a song from a movie he didn't remember, sung by someone he had never heard of, and written, quite naturally, by Paul Williams.

"Didn't he also write a song for the Carpenters?" Evelyn asked. "It was that one they always play at weddings..."

Jeff looked out the window. An endless expanse of trees surrounded them, occasionally broken by overgrown farmers' fields. The road they traveled was dirt and dusty gravel, and the sky was beginning to darken. He figured he'd nodded off and slept through most of the day, though he felt exhausted.

"Where are we?" he asked.

"Podunk, or thereabouts," Martin replied cheerfully. "Thirsty?"

"What?"

"Are you thirsty?"

"Yeah."

Martin reached behind his seat and pulled out a plastic water bottle. Jeff would have preferred something stronger, but he took what was offered. The water ran cool against his throat, invigorating as a mountain spring.

"You really were thirsty," Martin remarked. In less than a minute, Jeff had drained the entire bottle.

"Where are we?"

"You asked that already," Evelyn remarked. Her brow furrowed when she glanced at him. "Are you feeling okay?"

"Just a headache."

"Probably car sickness. I'll be sure to pull over the moment we reach a stopping point," Martin promised.

"You don't have to do that. I'll be okay—"

Behind the truck, an engine revved. A car sped around them, kicking up gravel that pinged off the windshield.

Martin leaned forward, his hands gripping the steering wheel tightly. "You two ever see Smokey and the Bandit?"

"Of course."

"The Bandit drove a black Pontiac Firebird Trans Am. Just in case you wanted to know what kind of car those brats who hit you were driving, Jeff."

"Are they following us?" Evelyn asked, alarmed.

"Probably been tailing him ever since we took him out of the woods. They're very persistent—like rats."

A beer bottle went flying out the back of the black car, shattering against the hood with a loud crack! Martin swerved out of their way.

Jeff clutched his head. With the jerking movement of the truck, the dull ache in his temples mutated into an excruciating pounding.

Martin pulled over in one of the fields. Every rock and mound of dirt pierced like a knife through Jeff's brain. By the time they stopped, he was moaning in pain.

He was too out of it to protest when Martin and Evelyn pulled him out of the truck. Once he was on solid ground, he wrenched himself out of their grasp.

"I told you, I'm fine!"

"Right—if you're fine, walk from here to there and back again." Martin pointed to a an old barn that loomed before them like a forgotten ruin.

Jeff began walking toward it. After only a few steps, his started to feel dizzy. He stopped and tried to regain his balance, but with his head throbbing, it was no use.

"Well, that settles it," Martin said. "We're stopping here for the night."

He walked over to the faded door of the barn.

Evelyn's eyes widened. "We're staying the night in there?"

"Where else?"

"But why not keep going until we get to a town or a motel?"

"It would take too long. We've just got to make do with what we've got."

The structure was still intact, albeit caked in dust and grime. Martin looked around and, apparently satisfied that it wouldn't come tumbling down at any minute, he turned back to his two charges.

"Now, I'm going to go check some things—"

"Great, so now you're leaving us here?!" Evelyn snapped. Her voice grated more from fear than indignation.

"Only for a few minutes. I want to be ready for anything."

"If they're following us, we should leave!"

"And keep going until we have no choice but to stop and confront them? I'd rather we face them on our own terms."

"We shouldn't have to face them at all!"

They were silenced by a loud thud. While they argued, Jeff had lost his balance and fell beside an old stall door.

His hands slipped against filthy, rotten wood, fumbling for purchase, before he felt a pair of arms wrap around his waist and drag him to his feet again.

"Jeff? You okay?"

Jeff didn't respond. Martin lowered him onto the floor again, where he shut his eyes and clutched his head in his hands.

"I've got stuff in the truck I don't want getting lost or stolen," Martin said. "Stay here with him, Evie."

"But—" Evelyn began to protest, then stopped herself.

The old door creaked as Martin went out.

"Maybe you have a concussion after all," Evelyn said, kneeling on the ground beside Jeff. "I tried to get him to take you to the hospital, but he insisted..."

She put a hand on his shoulder, but he shrugged it off. He hated feeling helpless, forced to rely on the kindness of strangers. It was enough that they were helping him get away—he didn't want their attentions or their pity.

Martin returned with a pair of rolled up flannel blankets tucked under either arm. He handed one to each of them. They were thick, designed to weather the harsh midwestern winter.

"Aren't these a bit heavy for June?" Evelyn asked.

"It gets chilly around here at night," Martin replied. "How's that headache?"

Jeff grimaced. "I just need to rest a little while."

"Fine by me." He glanced at Evelyn. "I'd ask you to help me unpack, but I'd rather you kept an eye on him. Make sure he doesn't start bleeding from the ears or something."

She sighed and changed into a more comfortable position, with her legs stretched out in front of her.

The next several minutes were a monotonous routine as Martin walked in and out of the barn, bringing in duffel bags and cardboard boxes. He whistled as he worked, as if the job was light and they had nothing to worry about.

Unraveling the blanket so he could lie down, Jeff's eyelids soon grew heavy. He closed them for only a moment, and suddenly he was back in the house on Bath Road.

It was morning, and he was sitting on the couch in the living room, surrounded by empty cans of beer. Everything was as it should be—he'd simply fallen asleep while watching TV.

Frisky was there, comforting as an old friend. He smiled when she meandered over, rickety and sickly in old age, to lick his outstretched hand.

And someone else was there, too.

He picked up an unopened can of beer and clutched it tightly, his eyes glued to the screen, trying to ignore the presence. It gnawed at him from the inside, a needling knowledge.

The memory was still raw. That night in Ohio, that one impulsive night, when he had picked somebody up off the road, taken them back to the house, all in a vain hope. What had he expected from a stranger, a normal person who had no idea what lurked behind blue eyes—

It was only a nightmare! But it had been horrific. Unforgivable. He knew it, sensed it, and yet he couldn't fathom the depths of what he had done. His conscience was either too atrophied to stop him, or he hadn't been born with one.

He stood up, and the hand that clutched the can began to quiver. Without a conscience, there was nothing to him. He was flotsam bobbing in the ocean, a leaf on the aimless wind, transparent and rotting. Soon he would be dust. Ashes. Meaningless.

His heart pounding, he jolted awake.

"Martin?" he called, his voice a thin whisper. "Evelyn?"

There was no answer from the pitch black. He struggled to stand. His legs wobbled, then buckled, forcing him to his knees. Fingers knotted in his hair. His skull felt as if it would split open.

A flashlight beam shone through the cracks in the door.

"Evelyn!"

She burst through the door and hurried past the empty stalls. She was dressed in a white nightgown, loose and fluttering against her bare legs.

"It's okay—I just went to change. What's the matter?"

"I can't sleep."

"That's because you slept in the car." She paused, her brow furrowing. "You look tired. I'm sure if you just relax, it'll come to you."

"I can't," he repeated.

She took the other blanket and spread it on the floor next to him, scattering dirt, hay, and other debris. "Why not?"

"I keep having nightmares."

The flashlight clicked off as she laid down and folded the rest of the blanket over her. Tucking one arm underneath her head, she looked over at him. There was a world of meaning in her eyes.

"I'm not surprised."

His breath caught in his throat. It was what he suspected, what he feared was true, and yet it still stunned him.

Afraid to meet her eyes, he rolled over on his back and stared up at the ceiling. Holes and cracks like wounds in the roof exposed a starry night sky.

"Am I dying?" he whispered. "Is this how it starts?"

"It's only a headache," she said, but her tone was flat.

He pushed hair out of his eyes. His forehead was damp. There was a distant buzz in his ears, faint and indistinct.

Distracted, he didn't notice Evelyn get up. When she suddenly appeared in his field of vision, he was startled.

"What are you doing?"

She was kneeling over him, holding a wet towel. "The old cold compress trick. It's the least I can do."

Gently, she laid the folded towel over his forehead. The buzzing grew louder and clearer. He recognized the sound. It was the jerky rattle of a hospital gurney with a faulty wheel.

"Why don't you just leave me alone?"

She was silent, her shoulders sagging.

"Why bother trying to keep me alive? I'm no use to anybody—"

"I knew who you were the moment I saw you," she interrupted. "You look just like your pictures. But that didn't stop me from helping you then, and it's not going to stop me now."

Crickets chirped in the woods. He wet his lips. "Does Martin know?"

"Maybe. I just met him a few days ago, but he acts like he knows all about me. So maybe he does."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means I understand about as much as you do."

He squeezed his eyes shut. "I hoped I was getting a second chance."

"So did I," she murmured.

"What happened to me?"

"I don't remember. But they never stopped talking about you. I kept seeing you in the news, hearing about you, reading about you. They even made a couple of movies. And every so often they would drag whoever was left out for an interview, trying to answer the eternal question of what went wrong with Jeffrey Dahmer..."

Guilt washed over him at the thought of his parents being harassed by reporters to the end of their days. "You've got an opinion of your own," he muttered. "Everyone does."

She shook her head. "I don't claim to have all the answers. No one does. We can't see what's going on in another person's head." She sighed. "After the fact, there are people who say they always had a feeling something was wrong. But how could that be true? If you knew all along, wouldn't you have tried to stop it from happening?"

"That's like asking why I didn't stop myself."

"But that's different—"

"No, not really. I called all the shots, and I chose to give in every time. It was my fault, and nobody else's."

For a time, they didn't say anything. The silence was filled with that awful rattle of wheels. He kept talking just to stifle it.

"Where's Martin?"

"He left."

"Where did he go?"

"To find the guys who beat you up, probably." She yawned. "There's one thing I don't understand. If we're dead, why are we here? Why aren't we in heaven or hell?"

The great unknown. "They wanted to save my brain," he whispered. "For study. To look for abnormalities. But I can still think... still dream..."

"What, are you saying I'm not real? You think this is all just a hallucination?"

Silence.

"Does this feel real?" She pinched the inside of his wrist.

He recoiled, tucking his arm within the folds of the blanket.

"Hurt, didn't it? So either we're not dead, or... well, I suppose this could be purgatory. You know about purgatory?"

"It's not in the Bible."

"But it's still a possibility," She yawned again. "I need to get some sleep."

"You wouldn't need to sleep if you're dead," he pointed out.

"Exactly. It just doesn't add up." She went back to her blanket and curled up in a ball. "No use talking about something we can't hope to understand. So good night, then."

He didn't dare let his eyes close.