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One step away from falling down and becoming a gap, too.

But when he knocked on the old wooden door’s glass pane, which was covered on the inside by a dusty curtain, a dog barked loudly from deep inside the house.

He faintly heard footsteps inside, then the lone bulb of the porch light came on.

Bony fingers pulled aside the dusty curtain, and an elderly black woman with a deeply wrinkled face and thinning gray hair peered out at him. She looked half asleep, and judging by her expression, she was not expecting to find a white man in a FedEx uniform on her porch.

“Can I help you?” she squeaked out.

“Sorry to bother you so late, ma’am. It’s my last delivery.” He held up the envelope. “Got a special delivery from the U.S. Treasury for a Jossiah Miffin at this address.”

“A what?”

“It’s an envelope from the Treasury Department in Washington. Been delivering these all day. I’m guessing they’re some kind of refund check.”

“Check?” she repeated, taking a long moment to consider that. “Just leave it. At the door be good.”

“Sorry, ma’am. Can’t do that. Need for this”—he glanced at the bill of lading and pretended to read it—“Jossiah Miffin to personally sign for it. He live here?”

She nodded. “He my grandson. I sent him to the drugstore in my car. You can wait if you want.”

Will Curtis felt his stomach start to knot up again.

He looked at the woman, nodded, and said, “I’m going to wait in the van.”

“Suit yourself,” she said, and the dusty curtain fell closed.

In t

he fifteen minutes that Will Curtis had sat in the minivan, hoping not to experience another unfortunate personal accident, he’d again seen the group of three boys who’d been walking down the sidewalk earlier.

They simply have nothing better to do.

Or choose not to find something better to do.

No wonder they get in such trouble. You look long enough for trouble, you’re damn sure going to find it.

There was still a knot in his stomach. And he still felt terribly weak and drained. The dizziness had not completely gone away.

He pulled the Glock out from under his shirt and laid it on his lap, then realized he hadn’t been keeping track of how many rounds he’d fired.

More important, how many I have left.

All I know for sure is that there’s one round chambered.

He pushed the magazine release on the side of the weapon and the magazine dropped out of the grip. Its capacity was ten rounds.

He held the magazine up to the overhead light. Numbered holes up its back side allowed for a visual count of the bullets, but in the poor lighting he had trouble seeing exactly how many were there.

With some effort, he started thumbing the rounds out the top of the magazine and into his lap. He counted a total of five left.

Six, including the one in the throat.

He reloaded the magazine with some effort, slipped it into the pistol, and, using the heel of his left hand, slammed it home.

Okay, now where the hell are you, Jossiah?

A minute or so later, his eyes were slightly blinded by lights reflected in his rearview mirrors.