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It’s about the task he was sent to complete.

“You don’t have to do it,” I say, so very, very softly.

“And what do you know about my choices?” He turns to me, his expression tumultuous.

“I know you have them,” I say.

Weallhave them. Even I do. That’s why I carry this guilt around despite the fact that situation was thrust upon me. Because I have been complacent when I don’t need to be.

“Do I?” Pestilence says it challengingly, as though I don’t have the first fresh shit of an idea what choice he actually has in the matter. He glares down at the bottle in his hands, like he only just realized it was there. “What am I supposed to do with this?” he asks, lifting it up.

I lift a shoulder. “Drink it, pour it out, blow a freaking tune across its rim. I don’t really care,” I answer, bringing my own beer to my lips.

Done giving advice to Pestilence; it only ever backfires anyway.

The anger fades from his expression, leaving him looking bleak. He watches me with those sorrowful blue eyes before facing forward again. After a moment, he brings the beer to his lips and takes a long swallow of it. He winces at the taste, then takes an even longer pull from the bottle.

He lowers it. “I cannot let my feelings get in the way of my task.”

Of course he can’t.

“But it is kind of you to care about my feelings, no matter your motives,” he adds.

The sound of the wind whistling through the trees fills the silence that follows.

I rub my thumb over the glass shoulder of my beer.

“Who are you, really?” I ask, lifting my gaze to his.

The horseman is right, I do care about his feelings. I care about him, and I want to get to know him and understand why it is he cannot waver from his purpose. Maybe then it will make sense to me. Maybe then I’ll stop pushing him.

Pestilence’s brows furrow. “That is a strange question, Sara.”

He always says my namewith such strange inflection, and I always get a small thrill from it.

“I am Pestilence,” he finally answers.

“No, that isn’twhoyou are, that’s just …” I struggle to find the right words, “your task.”

Those full lips of his pull down at the corners. “I do not work like you think I do,” he says, his features troubled. “My past is a series of impressions completely removed from this body and experience. And since I came to earth in this form, well, Iammy task and it is me—it is the sum total of my existence.”

But itisn’t, and it hasn’t been for who knows how long. Probably ever since the horseman picked me up and started getting a taste for the very things he’s destroying.

And that makes me wonder:isPestilence impervious to God’s wrath? Ever since Ruth brought the topic up, I keep coming back to this question. I mean, Pestilence is carrying out the Big Dude’s task, so he should be, and yet … his deedsareweighing on him. I can see it now more than ever. There’s uncertainty there, like he’s no longer sure whether what he’s doingisright. Even though God must’ve decreed it, and even though it’s been branded onto his skin, Pestilence is wavering.

On a whim, I take his hand and squeeze it, threading my fingers through his.

He glances down at our joined hands, then lets out a breath.

His eyes meet mine. “My favorite possession is my steed.”

At first I don’t really understand what he’s saying. But then, it clicks.

I soften. He’strying. Trying to tell me about himself.

“The steed you won’t name?” I ask.

“The steed you alreadyhave,” he corrects. “And you’ve given him a terribly ignoble name at that.” He takes a drink of his beer, clearly unsettled about having an opinion and voicing it.