The grin. That was bad.
“The soil of a man’s heart is stonier, Louis,” the dying man whispered. “A man grows what he can and tends it."
Louis. he thought, hearing nothing with his conscious mind after his own name. Oh my God he called me by my
name
“Who are you?” Louis asked in a trembling, papery voice. “Who are you?”
“Injun bring my fish
“How did you know my—” “Keep clear, us. Know—” “You—”
“Caa,” the young man said, and now Louis fancied he
could smell death on his breath, internal injuries, lost rhythm, failure, rein.
“What?” A crazy urge came to shake him.
“Gaaaaaaaa—”
The young man in the red gym shorts began to shudder all over. Suddenly he seemed to freeze with every
muscle locked. His eyes lost their vacant expression momentarily and seemed to find Louis’s eyes. Then
everything let go at once. There was a bad stink. Louis thought he would, must speak again. Then the eyes
resumed their vacant expression. . . and began to glaze. The man was dead.
Louis sat back, vaguely aware that all his clothes were sticking to him; he was drenched with sweat. Darkness
bloomed, spreading a wing softly over his eyes, and the world began to swing sickeningly sideways.
Recognizing what was happening, he half-turned from the dead man, thrust his head down between his knees,
and pressed the nails of his left thumb and left forefinger into his gums hard enough to bring blood.
After a moment the world began to clear again.
...I look at it as the Wendigo asking for tribute.....
