The

End

He was a young boy with a pack of cigarettes, and he took one of the cigarettes out of the pack and put it in his mouth. He struck a match, close to the ground, shielded it with his cupped hand from the wind, and then he lit the cigarette and shook the match out and threw it in the dust.

Even now, at the end of the day, the desert was hot. The dry dust held the heat and let it drift up at him. He ignored it. Hours before, he had removed his black golf jacket and folded it neatly on the ground next to him. In a few hours, when the desert lost its heat, he would unfold it and put it back on, turning up the collar. But that would not keep the ache out of his legs, which always felt the cold now.

He blew the cigarette smoke out discreetly, letting it go in near invisible breaths. He lay down on his stomach and brought his binoculars up to his eyes.

The town at the bottom of the long slope was as quiet as if it were midnight. He swept the glasses quickly back and forth, stopping to study the front of the house and various points at the perimeter of the town. Nothing moved. He put the binoculars down again and rolled over onto his back. He took a deep drag and found that the cigarette had gone out. Throwing it aside, he put his hands behind his head, closing his eyes and then opening them to stare at the purpling sky overhead and the growing bulb of Venus that would soon be joined by a thousand mantling stars.

The boy's name was Billy Potter. He thought about who he waited for in the town below.

He thought about who he would kill later this night.