Emmit gave his lower back one more noisy stretch and reached for his axe, mentally preparing himself for more pain and shock to come. When he rose to start swinging, the Rev was standing before him. His hair and beard were studded with glistening beads of sweat and cradled in his arms was a hollow log "bucket" that was filled with a mound of ice and snow. He sat it down heavily, grunting with the effort, then straightened up and dragged the back of his hand across his forehead.
"Lord have mercy," he said, this time wiping sweat from his eyes with his palm. Emmit's eyes were drawn to the Rev's matching scar on his cheek, set into the flesh of his face like a dark zipper. "Strange how it can be so hot and so cold at the same time."
Emmit observed wisps of steam curling off the Rev's weary body. Off behind him, Pup was supposed to be patching holes in the side of the cabin with sticky mud and a pile of old, unusable clothing. Instead, he was leaning against the wall, staring up at the clear blue sky and busily cracking his knuckles.
"Right? I was just thinking of how we never get sick," Emmit said, grabbing a handful of clean snow from the bucket and stuffing it into his mouth. "Nothing gets infected."
The Rev seemed to ponder this for a moment, then shrugged and nodded.
"That's true," he said. "I guess there's nothing alive in this place but us."
There was an awkward silence as Emmit waited to hear what the Rev had come to say. He scooped up another handful of snow, packed it into an egg shape, and hissed quietly as he touched it to his tender wound. The Rev watched him, his throat working and his eyes shining wetly.
"So listen," he finally stammered, "I just wanted to come and apologize to you. We haven't spoken much since that night. I just wanted to tell you that I only helped hold you down because I knew that if I didn't, Roy would—"
Emmit reached out with both blackened hands and gently grasped the Reverend by his shoulders. The Rev was startled, almost defensive, as if Emmit might be about to strangle him. When he saw the somber expression on Emmit's face, his tensed muscles relaxed— but only a little. Emmit could read the dread creasing his tired face.
"It wasn't anyone's fault but Poke's. My story is the true one. You believe me, right?"
The Rev nodded enthusiastically, and Emmit appreciated the lack of hesitation.
"I do believe you. We don't know each other very well, but I think I know you well enough," he said, with a sick-looking smile. "I know those two, too."
"What you said about us, being the only living things here. That's something else I noticed," Emmit said gravely. "There's nothing alive here but us. I feel like you're the only person here that I can trust, Rev, and I need you to be open and honest with me. Something... something's bothering me."
He released the Reverend's shoulders, and the Rev immediately began clasping his hands together, wringing them nervously as if he couldn't find the perfect hand position to pray with. His soft, sad eyes flicked from Emmit's to the ground, back and forth, back and forth. Emmit could hear him nervously tapping his teeth together behind his lips.
"Papa, I'm—"
"Don't call me that," Emmit interrupted, shaking his head in frustration. "I have a name, you have a name, we all have names. That kid over there, his name isn't Pup. That's someone's son. My name is Emmit. Emmit Mills, and I have a son named Deacon. I call him Deek. And somewhere, he's wondering why his daddy hasn’t been to see him."
After a long and questioning stare from the Rev, one that was long enough to make Emmit think he was going to shut the conversation down, he extended his calloused hand. Emmit took it and shook it smartly.
"Tim," he said, apprehensively. "Tim Barnette."
"Very pleased to meet you," Emmit said. "Please, Tim. Tell me what's really happening here."
"Emmit, if I tell you anything Roy doesn't want you to know yet, he will kill me. He's very particular. He has a routine that he doesn't like to break. In fact, if he knew we were even mentioning his name right now he'd probably kill both of us, and then he'd have two Providers. My lord, he's already watching us like a hawk."
"There. The Provider. What the hell does that even mean? Why hasn't Roy let me in on that little secret? Is it because someone has to die to be the Provider?"
Emmit's rapid fire questions were stabbing into the Rev like volleys of arrows. The next question was more like a harpoon than an arrow and had to be pulled from Emmit's mouth like a stubborn wisdom tooth.
He'll kill us, and that will give him two Providers?
"Tim, what are we eating?"
Tim Barnette's entire body sagged as if he had just finished running the longest marathon of his life. The expression on his face seemed to spread over his entire body, and it was unmistakable. It was shame, generously peppered with guilt. Looking Emmit in the eyes seemed to cause him a great deal of pain.
"Emmit, we've been eating… the last Provider," he said, his head hanging so low that Emmit could see the top of his curly scalp. His dark hair was streaked with ribbons of silver and gray.
Emmit had expected this answer, but it still struck him like a falling brick. He pictured himself sitting by the fire with his little wooden bowl, picking up hunks of charred meat with his fingers and eating them, savoring the juices that squeezed out between his gnashing
