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ball player stirred his coffee and finally sighed. “Are you a baseball fan, Mr. Dawson?”
    “I am. Since I was a kid, actually.”
    “Then you know me and my career. You are not new to your business, as I understand. I am sure you can already guess what happened. I was getting old. The new players coming in every season were younger, stronger, faster. Arizona was the first team to keep me for more than two months, and the only one to let me do more than warm up in the bull pen. All I ever wanted to do was play ball, and nobody was going to let me anymore.” He sipped from his cup.
    “One night, I was standing out on the mound after a game, just watching the empty stadium and contemplating whether I would retire or take the bump to the minors. All I could hear was the echo of the grounds crew, already back in the tunnels, and the hum of the lights. It was so still. . . .” For a moment, he was lost in the past. I had seen that look many times, on many faces. “I thought I was alone, but then this man walked out of the visiting dugout. He had on a suit, clean- cut. I just figured he was someone’s agent or lawyer. He had that look.” Kidd paused there, and I could see a shudder run through him.
    “And then he started talking. It was like his voice was piercing right into my skull. Like . . . there aren’t any words to describe what it was like.” His eyes, when he finally looked at me, were wide and shocky. Even now, years after he must have made his bargain, that memory threatened to unhinge him.
    “Drink your coffee, Mr. Kidd.” I pressed the cup into his hands, and he clutched it like a lifeline. “I know what they sound like.” I had spent more time conversing with demons in the past four years than I wanted to think about. The voices stayed with me long after I banished their physical forms. It was like an oil slick in the mind, a sickly rainbow taint gliding over crystal clear water. No amount of showering would get rid of it, but I’d tried, in the beginning.
    “You ever just suddenly realize that someone isn’t human, even though that should be impossible?” He shook his head, dropping his gaze again. “Yeah . . . I suppose you have.”
    “And he made you an offer you couldn’t refuse.” It’s cliché, yes, but it’s amazing how often it applies.
    Kidd seemed to think about that before shaking his head again. “No. I could have refused. I mean, that’s what free will is about, right? There’s always a choice? I chose what I did with full knowledge of what I was doing. At the time, I thought, hey, I’m not a religious man, so what does it really matter? And my game came back, and we went to the series and it was everything I dreamed it would be.”
    “So what changed?” Normally, they came to me when they were sure they were dying and only had Hell to look forward to. I get a lot of cancer patients.
    “My daughter had a baby about seven months ago. My first grandchild. A little boy.” He smiled faintly, and I had to return it. What can I say—my daughter is the light of my life. I understood completely. Kidd’s smile faded, though, quickly. “He screams when I try to hold him. He’s inconsolable. My wife keeps trying to tell me that’s just how babies are, but . . . He knows, doesn’t he, Mr. Dawson? Just a baby, but he knows.”
    The conversation paused as Waitress Brit brought my lunch and refilled Kidd’s coffee, though he hadn’t had more than a sip. I cut into my steak to make sure they’d cooked it right—I loathe overcooked steak—but it was perfect and red in the center. “Yeah . . . he knows,” I said, talking around my first bite. “Children and animals, Mr. Kidd. They’re not fooled by all the masks and shields. They know. If it’s any consolation, by the time he’s about fifteen or so, he’ll be just as jaded as the rest of us, and it won’t matter anymore.” The fries were good—hot and seasoned perfectly. I didn’t even bother with ketchup.
    Kidd