“I think she’ll leave me alone anyway,” Nettle said. “I warned her. I haven’t seen her around or heard from her, so I guess it finally sank in on her that I meant business.”

“Warned who? About what?” Polly asked, but Nettle had already left the doorway, and Polly was indeed penned in her seat by the electric gloves. By the time Nettle reappeared with the coffee tray, the Percodan had begun to fog her in and she had forgotten all about Nettle’s odd remark… which was not surprising in any case, since Nettle made odd remarks quite often.

Nettle put cream and sugar in Polly’s coffee and held it up so she could sip from the cup. They chatted about one thing and another, and of course the conversation turned to the new shop before very long.

Nettle told her about the purchase of the carnival glass lampshade again, but hardly in the breathless detail Polly would have expected, given the extraordinary nature of such an event in Nettle’s life. But it kicked off something else in her mind: the note Mr. Gaunt had put in the cake container.

“I almost forgot-Mr. Gaunt asked me to stop by this afternoon.

He said he might have an item I’d be interested in.”

“You’re not going, are you? With your hands like they are?”

“I might. They feel better-I think the gloves really did work this time, at least a little. And I have to do something.” She looked at Nettle a trifle pleadingly.

“Well… I suppose.” A sudden idea struck Nettle. “You know, I could walk by there on the way home, and ask him if he could come to your house!”

“Oh no, Nettle-that’s out of your way!”

“Only a block or two.” Nettle cast an endearingly sly side-glance Polly’s way. “Besides, he might have another piece of carnival glass.

I don’t have enough money for another one, but he doesn’t know that, and it doesn’t cost anything to look, does it?”

“But to ask him to come here-”

“I’ll explain how it is with you,” Nettle said decisively, and began putting things back onto the tray.

“Why, businessmen often have home demonstrations-if they have something worth selling, that is.”

Polly looked at her with amusement and love. “You know, you’re different when you’re here, Nettle.”

Nettle looked at her, surprised. “I am?”

“Yes. “How?”

“In a good way. Never mind. Unless I have a relapse, I think I will want to go out this afternoon. But if you do happen to go by Needful Things-”

“I will.” A look of ill-concealed eagerness shone in Nettle’s eyes. Now that the idea had occurred to her, it took hold with all the force of a compulsion. Doing for Polly had been a tonic for her nerves, and no mistake.

–and if he does happen to be in, give him my home number and ask him to give me a call if the item he wanted me to see came in. Could you do that?”

“You betcha!” Nettle said. She rose with the coffee-tray and took it into the kitchen. She replaced her apron on its hook in the pantry and came back into the living room to remove the thermal gloves.

Her coat was already on. Polly thanked her again-and not just for the lasagna. Her hands still hurt badly, but the pain was manageable now.

And she could move her fingers again.

“You’re more than welcome,” Nettle said. “And you know what? You do look better. Your color’s coming back. It scared me to look at you when I first came in. Can I do anything else for you before I go?”

“No, I don’t think so.” She reached out and clumsily grasped one of Nettle’s hands in her own, which were still flushed and very warm from the gloves. “I’m awfully glad you came over, dear.”

On the rare occasions when Nettle smiled, she did it with her whole face; it was like watching the sun break through the clouds on an overcast morning. “I love you, Polly.”

Touched, Polly replied: “Why, I love you, too, Nettle.”

Nettle left. It was the last time Polly ever saw her alive.

The lock on Nettle Cobb’s front door was about as complex as the lid of a candy-box; the first skeleton key Hugh tried worked after a little jiggling and joggling. He opened the door.

A small dog, yellow with a white bib, sat on the hall floor. He uttered his single stern bark as morning sunlight fell around him and Hugh’s large shadow fell on him.

“You must be Raider,” Hugh said softly, reaching into his pocket.

The dog barked again and promptly rolled over on his back, all four paws splayed out limply.

“Say, that’s cute!” Hugh said. Raider’s stub of a tail thumped against the wooden floor, presumably in agreement. Hugh shut the door and squatted beside the dog. With one hand he scratched the right side of the dog’s chest in that magic place that is somehow connected to the right rear paw, making it flail rapidly at the air.

With his other he drew a Swiss Army knife out of his pocket.

“Aw, ain’t you a good fella?” Hugh crooned. “Ain’t you a one?”

He left off scratching and took a scrap of paper from his shirt pocket. Written on it in his labored schoolboy script was the message the fox-tail had given him-Hugh had sat down at his kitchen table and written it even before he got dressed, so he wouldn’t forget a single word.

He pulled out the corkscrew hidden in one of the fat knife’s slots and stuck the note on it. Then he turned the body of the knife sideways and closed his fist over it so the corkscrew protruded between the second and third fingers of his powerful right hand.

He went back to scratching Raider, who had been lying on his back through all of this, eyeing Hugh cheerfully. He was cute as a bug, Hugh thought.

“Yes! Ain’t you just the best old fella? Ain’t you just the best old one?” Hugh asked, scratching. Now both rear legs were flailing.

Raider looked like a dog pedaling an invisible bike. “Yes you are!

Yes you are! And do you know what I’ve got? I’ve got a fox-tail!

Yes I do!”

Hugh held the corkscrew with the note pinned to it over the white bib on Raider’s breast.

“And do you know what else? I’m gonna keep it!”

He brought his right hand down hard. The left, which had been scratching Raider, now pinned the dog as he gave the corkscrew three hard twists. Warm blood jetted up, dousing both of his hands.

The dog rattled briefly on the floor and then lay still. He would utter his stern and harmless bark no more.

Hugh stood up, his heart thumping heavily. He suddenly felt very bad about what he had done-almost ill. Maybe she was crazy, maybe not, but she was alone in the world, and he had killed what was probably her only goddam friend.

He wiped his bloody hand across his shirt. The stain hardly showed at all on the dark wool. He couldn’t take his eyes off the dog.

He had done that. Yes, he had done it and he knew it, but he could hardly believe it. It was as if he had been in a trance, or something.

The inner voice, the one that sometimes talked to him about the A-A. meetings, spoke up suddenly. Yes-and I suppose you’ll even be able to make yourself believe it, given time. But you weren’t in any fucking trance; you knew just what you were doing.

And why, Panic began to race through him. He had to get out of here.

He backed slowly down the hall, then uttered a hoarse cry as he ran into the closed front door. He fumbled behind him for the knob, and at last found it. He turned it, opened the door, and slid out of Crazy Nettle’s house. He looked around wildly, somehow expecting to see half the town gathered here, watching him with solemn, judicial eyes. He saw no one but a kid pedaling up the street. There was a Playmate picnic cooler propped at an odd angle in the basket of the kid’s bike. The kid spared Hugh Priest not so much as a glance as he went by, and when he was gone there were only the church-bells… this time they were calling the Methodists.