Billy steps Latham to her bower where he bellies underneath the bed. She squats in a corner despairing. In that time an enigma nowise explicable occurs in their center room: the logs in their fire are removed by hand and though a paling fence of smoke is present the fireplace is vacant and empty. No one hearing the work. No conceivable finish. And they wait on the spectral cusp of this thing that repeats its oddities, Billy asking, "how long have you been in this room?" Latham tapping the floor from beneath the bed, hissing "what did you say?" and his mother hoarsely answers, "be ever so quiet. He is with us." Billy rises to join her son where he hides, and where they hide as obvious as a gap in a grin where a tooth has been extracted, and he knows where they lie as he circles their house, the silence broken outside by his slewed warning, Threadbare kneeing at their feet with a whisper.
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