He watches as another guest stands before the ajar door.  He sent a letter three days ago offering an opportunity of a lifetime, one He just knew that a man in Martin Kohler’s condition could never pass up.  And here Martin is, right on time.

            Martin is surveying the building.  It’s an old post office.  The sign hanging on the stoop cover reads “Since 1891”.  There is another sign:  No Loitering, No Looting, Trespassers Will Be Punished.  Corrugated roofing panels line the outer walls.  The only way in or out is the open door.  Just the way He likes it.

            As Martin, looking slowly in each direction, steps inside, He creeps closer behind, melding into the shadows.  He reaches the stoop when the office swallows Martin.

            The door closes and Martin spins.  There is no light—only Martin’s breathing.  “Hello?”

            He moves aside as Martin feels his way to the door.  Martin’s steps are quick and panicked.  There is no door.  No light.  Only Martin’s  breathing—heavier—faster—now fainter.

            Martin falls to his knees and He closes his eyes delightfully.  Martin is now lying on the floor.  He picks Martin up and places him in an old mail carrier.  He then goes back out, into the shadows of the trees and watches.