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　　　　〃He's　been　dead　for　days！　He　never　existed！〃
　　　　In　a　paroxysm　of　fury；　he　lashed　out　and　kicked　the　coffee　table　with　one　numb　booted　foot。　The　table　flipped　over；　broke　the　frame　of　Joan's　picture　as　it　jolted　across　the　rug。　He　kicked　it　again；　breaking　one　of　its　legs。　Then　he　knocked　over　the　sofa；　and　leaped　past　it　to　the　bookcases。　One　after　another；　he　heaved　them　to　the　floor。
　　　　In　moments；　the　neat　leper's　order　of　the　room　had　degenerated　into　dangerous　chaos。　At　once；　he　rushed　back　to　the　bedroom。　With　stumbling　fingers；　he　tore　the　penknife　out　of　his　pocket；　opened　it；　and　used　it　to　shred　the　bloodstained　pillow。　Then；　while　the　feathers　settled　like　guilty　snow　over　the　bed　and　bureaus；　he　thrust　the　knife　back　into　his　pocket　and　slammed　out　of　the　house。
　　　　He　went　down　into　the　woods　behind　Haven　Farm　at　a　run；　hurrying　toward　the　secluded　hut　which　held　his　office。　If　he　could　not　speak　of　his　distress；　perhaps　he　could　write　it　down。　As　he　flashed　along　the　path；　his　fingers　were　already　twitching　to　type　out：　Help　me　help　help　help！　But　when　he　reached　the　hut；　he　found　that　it　looked　as　if　he　had　already　been　there。　Its　door　had　been　torn　from　its　hinges；　and　inside　the　hulks　of　his　typewriters　lay　battered　amid　the　litter　of　his　files　and　papers。　The　ruin　was　smeared　with　excrement；　and　the　small　rooms　stank　of　urine。
　　　　At　first；　he　stared　at　the　wreckage　as　if　he　had　caught　himself　in　an　act　of　amnesia。　He　could　not　remember　having　done　this。　But　he　knew　he　had　not　done　it；　it　was　vandalism；　an　attack　on　him　like　the　burning　of　his　stables　days　or　weeks　ago。　The　unexpected　damage　stunned　him。　For　an　odd　instant；　he　forgot　what　he　had　just　done　to　his　house。　I　am　not　a　violent　man；　he　thought　dumbly。　I'm　not。
　　　　Then　the　constricted　space　of　the　hut　seemed　to　spring　at　him　from　all　the　walls。　A　suffocating　sensation　clamped　his　chest。　For　the　third　time；　he　ached　to　vomit；　and　could　not。
　　　　Gasping　between　clenched　teeth；　he　fled　into　the　woods。
　　　　He　moved　aimlessly　at　first；　drove　the　inanition　of　his　bones　as　fast　as　he　could　deep　into　the　woodland　with　no　aim　except　flight。　But　as　sunset　filled　the　hills；　cluttered　the　trails　with　dusk；　he　bent　his　steps　toward　the　town。　The　thought　of　people　drew　him　like　a　lure。　While　he　stumbled　through　the　twilit　spring　evening；　odd；　irrational　surges　of　hope　jabbed　his　heart。　At　erratic　intervals；　he　thought　that　the　mere　sight　of　a　forthright；　unrecriminating　face　would　steady　him；　bring　the　extremities　of　his　plight　back　within　his　grasp。
　　　　He　feared　to　see　such　a　face。　The　implicit　judgment　of　its　health　would　be　beyond　his　endurance。
　　　　Yet　he　jerked　unevenly　on　through　the　woods　like　a　moth　fluttering　in　half…voluntary　pursuit　of　immolation。　He　could　not　resist　the　cold　siren　of　people；　the　allure　and　pain　of　his　mon　mortal　blood。　Help！　He　winced　as　each　cruel　hope　struck　him。　Help　me！
　　　　But　when　he　neared　the　town…when　he　broke　out　of　the　woods　in　back　of　the　scattered　old　homes　which　surrounded　like　a　defensive　perimeter　the　business　core　of　the　small　town…he　could　not　muster　the　courage　to　approach　any　closer。　The　bright…lit　windows　and　porches　and　driveways　seemed　impassable：　he　would　have　to　brave　too　much　illumination；　too　much　exposure；　to　reach　any　door；　whether　or　not　it　would　wele　him。　Night　was　the　only　cover　he　had　left　for　his　terrible　vulnerability。
　　　　Whimpering　in　frustration　and　need；　he　tried　to　force　himself　forward。　He　moved　from　house　to　house；　searching　for　one；　any　one；　which　might　offer　him　some　faint　possibility　of　consolation。　But　the　lights　refused　him。　The　sheer　indecency　of　thrusting　himself　upon　unwitting　people　in　their　homes　joined　his　fear　to　keep　him　back。　He　could　not　impose　on　the　men　and　women　who　lived　in　sanctuary　behind　the　brightness。　He　could　not　carry　the　weight　of　any　more　victims。
　　　　In　this　way…dodging　and　ducking　around　the　outskirts　of　the　munity　like　a　futile　ghost；　a　ghoul　impotent　to　horrify…he　passed　the　houses；　and　then　returned　as　he　had　e；　made　his　scattered　way　back　to　Haven　Farm　like　a　dry　leaf；　brittle　to　the　breaking　point；　and　apt　for　fire。
　　　　At　acute　times　during　the　next　three　days；　he　wanted　to　burn　his　house　down；　put　it　to　the　torch…make　it　the　pyre　or　charnel　of　his　uncleanness。　And　in　many　less　savage　moods；　he　ached　to　simply　slit　his　wrists…open　his　veins　and　let　the　slow　misery　of　his　collapse　drain　away。　But　he　could　not　muster　the　resolution　for　either　act。　Torn　between　horrors；　he　seemed　to　have　lost　the　power　of　decision。　The　little　strength　of　will　that　remained　to　him　he　spent　in　denying　himself　food　and　rest。
　　　　He　went　without　food　because　he　had　fasted　once　before；　and　that　hunger　had　helped　to　carry　him　through　a　forest　of　self…deceptions　to　a　realization　of　the　appalling　thing　he　had　done　to　Lena；　Elena's　mother。　Now　he　wanted　to　do　the　same；　he　wanted　to　cut　through　all　excuses；　justifications；　digressions；　defenses；　and　meet　his　condition　on　its　darkest　terms。　If　he　failed　to　do　this；　then　any　conclusion　he　reached　would　be　betrayed　from　birth；　like　Elena；　by　the　inadequacy　of　his　rectitude　or　prehension。
　　　　But　he　fought　his　bone…deep　need　for　rest　because　he　was　afraid　of　what　might　happen　to　him　if　he　slept。　He　had　learned　that　the　innocent　do　not　sleep。　Guilt　begins　in　dreams。
　　　　Neither　of　these　abnegations　surpassed　him。　The　nausea　lurking　constantly　in　the　pit　of　his　stomach　helped　him　to　keep　from　food。　And　the　fever　of　his　plight　did　not　let　him　go。　It　held　and　rubbed　him　like　a　harness；　he　seemed　to　have　the　galls　of　it　on　his　soul。　Whenever　the　penury　of　his　resources　threatened　him；　he　gusted　out　of　his　house　like　a　lost　wind；　and　scudded　through　the　hills　for　miles　up　and　down　the　wooded　length　of　Righters　Creek。　And　when　he　could　not　rouse　himself　with　exertion；　he　lay　down　across　the　broken　furniture　in　his　living　room；　so　that　if　he　dozed　he　would　be　too　unfortable　to　rest　deeply　enough　for　dreams。
　　　　In　the　process；　he　did　nothing　to　care　for　his　illness。　His　VSE…the　Visual　Surveillance　of　Extremities　on　which　his　struggle　against　leprosy　depended…and　other　self…protective　habits　he　neglected　as　if　they　had　lost　all　meaning　for　him。　He　did　not　take　the　medication　which　had　at　one　time　arrested　the　spreading　of　his　disease。　His　forehead　festered；　cold　numbness　gnawed　its　slow　way　up　the　nerves　of　his　hands　and　feet。　He　accepted　such　things；　ignored　his　danger。　It　was　condign；　he　deserved　it。
　　　　Nevertheless；　he　fell　into　the　same　fey　mood　every　evening。　In　the　gloom　of　twilight；　his　need　for　people　became　unendurable；　it　drew　him　spitting　and　gnashing　his　teeth　to　the　outer　darkness　beyond　the　home　lights　of　the　town。　Night　after　night　he　tried　to　drive　himself　to　the　door　of　a　home；　any　home。　But　he　could　not　raise　his　courage　high　enough　to　accost　the　lights。　People　within　a　stone's　throw　of　him　remained　as　unattainable　as　if　they　occupied　another　world。　Each　night　he　was　thrown　back　for　panionship　on　the　unrelieved　aspect　of　his　own　weakness…and　on　the　throbbing　ache　which　filled　his　skull　as　the　infection　in　his　forehead　grew。
　　　　Elena　had　died　because　of　him。　She　was　his　daughter；　and　he　had　loved　her。　Yet　he　had　trapped　her　into　death。
　　　　She　had　never　even　existed。
　　　　He　could　find　no　answer　to　it。
　　　　Then；　Thursday　night；　the　pattern　of　his　decline　was　broken　for　him。　In　the　process　of　his　futile　ghosting；　he　became　aware　of　sounds　on　the　dark　breeze。　A　tone　rose　and　fell　like　a　voice　in　oratory；　and　between　its　stanzas　he　heard　singing。　Disembodied　in　the　darkness；　the　voices　had　a　tattered；　mournful　air；　like　an　invitation　to　a　gathering　of　damned　souls…verses　and　chorus　responding　in　dolor　to　each　other。　Elena　had　been　a　singer；　daughter　of　a　family　of　singers。　Fumbling　his　way　through　the　benighted　outskirts　of　the　town；　he　followed　the　reft　sorrow　of　the　music。
　　　　It　led　him　past　the　houses；　around　the　town；　down　the　road　to　the　barren　field　which　served　as　a　parade　ground　whenever　the　town　celebrated　a　patriotic　occasion。　A　few　people　were　still　hurrying　toward　the　field　as　if　they　were　late；　and　Covenant　avoided　them　by　staying　off　the　road。　When　he　reached　the　parade　groun