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from cardboard and plastic wrap, the better to stay close to his flock. The Preacher had been claimed by God, and Milo had been claimed first by social services, then by his mother. Giuliana Larkin had materialized in the Preacher’s life a few years after Daniel’s mother died, and dematerialized before Milo was on solid food. For good, they’d all thought. But then came the killing day and Daniel’s turn in the media spotlight, and she’d spotted Milo on the evening news. A week later, she was back and settled into a house on the luckier side of town. She’d needed only one efficient hour to pack a small red suitcase for Milo, then pack Milo into a small red Civic. One hour to dissolve any illusions Daniel might have had of a family. This year there would be no reason to feign a belief in Santa and no need to hastily wrap an old stuffed animal from the bottom of Milo’s toy chest with a card attached reading “Love, Dad.” Around the Ghent house, there lately didn’t seem to be much reason for anything.
    Jeremiah West’s Christmas was picture-perfect, at least judging from the family portrait that topped the family’s annual Christmas letter. The West patriarch, it was reported, had posted record earnings in farm-equipment repair. Mother West intended to spend the winter perfecting her pie recipe in time for the spring bake-off. This year nothing would stop her from taking home the blue ribbon, not even her “dear neighbor” Maddie Thomas’s “white-knuckle grip on the trophy” thanks to her “thoroughly reliable pumpkin pie.” (The letter’s careful breeziness here could not disguise the bitter determination underlying this upcoming grudge match.) The letter detailed Jeremiah’s record-breaking rushing and receiving stats, but not the joyriding escapade for which he’d spent a night in jail.
    Winter passed, cold and barren, with hearty meals and stoked fires, empty streets and packed bars. Down at the Yellowbird, where Old Winston had been a constant fixture, beers were hoisted in his honor, their departed patron saint of lost weekends. The regulars lived for that time of night when the door would swing open and a sullen Jule Prevette – always in those mannish combat boots and distinctly unmannish fishnets – would arrive to escort her new stepfather home.
     
    Oleander thawed, snow melted, crops sprouted, and the Preacher prepared for the end. He saw the angels of death shadowing their prey; he saw Satan’s handmaidens digging their pit to hell. Oleander thawed, but the chill lingered in the shadow that was cast over the town, promise of dark days to come. Only the Preacher saw the signs. Only the Preacher knew what lay beneath the earth, the darkness stirred up by the misguided creatures above. Only the Preacher heard the song whispered by the budding branches,
the
end
the
end
the
end
of
days.
The Preacher warned them, though they would not heed. So be it. When the time came, they would be lost to the shadows. When the pit opened and loosed its demons upon the world, he would be prepared.
    He would take care of his own.
     
    The year passed from Sunday to Sunday, the churches vying for souls with brimstone sermons, potluck dinners, bingo nights, and the ever-shifting tiles on the welcome signs that hung by their doors:
     
    FREE COFFEE . EVERLASTING LIFE . MEMBERSHIP HAS ITS PRIVILEGES .
    STAYING IN BED SHOUTING “ OH GOD !” DOES NOT CONSTITUTE GOING TO CHURCH .
    YOU HAVE ONE NEW FRIEND REQUEST FROM JESUS : ACCEPT OR DENY .
    DO NOT WAIT FOR THE HEARSE TO TAKE YOU TO CHURCH .
    EVEN SATAN BELIEVES IN GOD .
    IT ’ S THE TEN COMMANDMENTS , NOT THE TEN SUGGESTIONS .
    SEVEN DAYS WITHOUT GOD MAKES ONE WEAK .
    DOWN IN THE MOUTH ? TRY A FAITH LIFT .
    SANTA CLAUS NEVER DIED FOR ANYONE .
    SIGN BROKEN . MESSAGE INSIDE .
    GOD SHOWS NO FAVORITISM , BUT WE DO – GO ROYALS !
    THINK IT ’ S HOT HERE ? IMAGINE HELL .
    Eventually, though it never seemed possible through the days of clouds and frost, the sun