“I don’t think I can grow any more,” Diederik said. “I am almost as big as you gentlemen!” He smiled. “But I’m grateful for the clothes.”

If anything could distract Joe from the pain in his ankle, this was it. “He looked about eleven the day after he got here,” he whispered. “Now he could be fifteen.”

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Chuy said, his voice low. “Diederik, where is the Rev?” he said, in a louder tone.

“He is digging a grave,” the boy said. “I offered to do it for him, but he said I could take a walk, that it was his sacred duty. And Miss Fiji, she didn’t have anything for me to do this morning, and no more muffins or cookies.” He looked at Chuy hopefully.

“Oh,” Chuy said. “Hmmm. I’ve got some English muffins. You could have them with butter and jelly.”

“I’m always hungry,” Diederik said simply.

“Then you watch Joe while I go fix them.” Chuy went out the front door to mount the stairs again.

Joe’s ankle was subsiding to a dull throb now. He figured nothing was broken.

“Is everyone in Midnight like me?” Diederik said suddenly.

“No, only the Rev,” Joe said. He would have enjoyed some quiet, but the boy was too restless for that. “We’ve never seen anyone like you, either,” he added, his eyes closed while he shifted the chairs around in an attempt to be more comfortable. “You’re growing so fast. I’ve seen you look at Grady. Most kids grow like him, not like you.”

“Am I very—peculiar?” Diederik had to grope for a word that would fit. His accent was not as pronounced as it had been when he’d first gotten to Midnight. In the few days he’d been in residence, his speech had grown, right along with everything else about him.

“Peculiar?” Joe thought about it. “No. Not in the sense of weird or bizarre. But I don’t think there are many like you around.”

Diederik fidgeted and finally went to seek out the broom and dustpan. He swept the already-clean area around Chuy’s workstation, and then the English muffins came downstairs borne by Chuy, along with a thermos of juice. Diederik fell on the muffins like he was starving, and he drank all the juice. He sat in one of the antique chairs very neatly and promptly fell asleep.

“Where’s Rasta?” Joe asked abruptly. The men exchanged startled glances.

“He was in here with me when you two came in!” Chuy leaped to his feet and began looking around. “You don’t think he got out when I went upstairs?”

“Maybe Mr. Snuggly sneaked in,” Joe said. Rasta and Mr. Snuggly had a long-running feud, though more often than not Rasta barked and danced around when Mr. Snuggly came near. He’d never hidden before.

Joe called, “Rasta! Here, boy!” with a kind of hushed urgency. He didn’t want to wake the boy.

They heard a pitiful whine.

“Look,” Chuy said, pointing to an old desk about ten feet away. A tiny face peered from behind the furniture, ears back.

“He’s scared,” Joe said, recognizing the look and attitude.

“Of what?”

Joe reached out a hand to touch Chuy’s arm. When Chuy looked down at him, Joe nodded toward the sleeping boy. “Him.”

They were thoughtful for a while. No one came into the store to disturb them, and the phone didn’t ring. None of the old people from the hotel stopped by, which was something of a relief. Visits from the newcomers formed an increasingly frequent (and not always welcome) part of the day. The boy slept on. From time to time, he twitched in his sleep or his hand went to his face as if something about it bothered him.

“He’s like the Rev,” Joe said finally, so quietly Chuy had to strain to hear him.

“But the Rev is the only one left.”

“He thought so. What if he was wrong?”

“So the boy is about to . . .” Chuy’s eyes widened.

“Yes,” breathed Joe. “Go look on the computer.” Chuy left most of the electronic work to Joe, but he could search for a calendar as well as anyone.

“Full moon in three nights,” he said. “What can we do to get ready?”

Joe shrugged. “We can stay upstairs and bolt the door,” he said. They fell silent and looked at Diederik.

18

Olivia was in the chapel. She could count on one hand the times she’d entered the old building. She realized now that she hadn’t been missing anything. The chapel had been built from thick planks, perhaps hand-cut, she speculated, looking at them now. It was a very basic rectangular building with a pitched roof and a steeple slapped on top. It was painted white inside and out, but it was just about due another coat. Inside, the wood floors had been painted, too, a dark gray. The benches that served as the pews were sturdy but a bit splintery. There was electricity, of a very basic sort, though the Rev didn’t often turn the bare bulb on. There was an altar. There was no stained glass, no beautiful vestments or altar cloths, no candles or incense. But there were three paintings, the old one above the altar that had always been there, and two Grandma Moses–style oils depicting two stories from the Bible: Daniel in the lions’ den, and Noah and the ark. The new paintings were donations from Bobo. The owner, whom Bobo had told the Rev was the artist himself, had never redeemed the artworks, and Bobo had thought they would suit the Rev.

Bobo had been right.

The Rev had been gazing at them in a fascinated way when Olivia had entered.