Donna didn't answer. She saw a dark shape in the fog. It slowly became distinct, became the strange, limping man. In his left hand he carried a rock.

"Is he back?" Sandy asked.

"He's on his way."

"What's he doing?"

"Honey, I want you to sit up."

"What?"

"Get up in your seat. If I tell you to, I want you to jump out and run. Run into the woods and hide."

"What about you?"

"I'll try to come, too. But you go when I say, regardless."

"No. I won't go without you."

"Sandra!"

"I won't!"

Donna watched the man climb up the embankment to the car. He used the door handle to pull himself up. Then he thumped the window, like before, pointing at the lock button. He made a smile. "I'll come in," he said.

"Go away!"

He raised the gray, wedge-shaped rock in his left hand. He tapped it lightly against the window, then looked at her.

"Okay," Donna said to him.

"Mom, don't."

"We can't stay in here," she said quietly.

The man grinned as Donna reached over her shoulder.

"Get ready, hon."

"No!"

She flicked up the lock button, levered the door handle and thrust herself against it. The door swung, jolted, and knocked into the man. With a yelp of surprise, he tumbled backward, the rock flying from his hand. He did a crooked somersault to the bottom of the ditch.

"Now!"

"Mom!"

"Let's go!"

"He'll get us!"

Donna saw him motionless on his back. His eyes were shut. "It's all right," she said. "Look. He's knocked out."

"He's playing possum, Mom. He'll get us."

Hanging onto the open door, one foot down on the slippery grass, Donna stared at the man. He certainly looked unconscious, the way his arms and legs were splayed out in such strange, grotesque ways. Unconscious, or even dead.

Playing possum?

She raised her foot inside the car, pulled the door shut, and locked it. "Okay," she said, "we'll stay."

The girl sighed, and lowered herself, once again, to the floor in front of the seat.

Donna managed a smile for her. "You okay?"

She nodded.

"Cold?"

Another nod. Awkwardly, Donna turned and stretched an arm over the back of the seat. She reached Sandy's coat first, then her own.

Curled against the passenger door, Sandy used the coat to cover all but her face.

Donna got into her blue windbreaker.

The man outside hadn't moved.

"It's almost dark," Sandy whispered.

"Yeah."

"He'll come for us when it's dark."

"Do you have to say that kind of stuff?"

"I'm sorry," the girl said.

"Besides, I don't think he's coming for anybody. I think he's hurt."

"He's pretending."

"I don't know." Bent forward with her chin on the steering wheel, Donna watched him. She watched for the movement of an arm or leg, for a turn of the head, an opening eye. Then she tried to see if he was breathing.

In his fall, the sweatshirt under his open jacket had pulled up, leaving his belly exposed. She watched it closely. It didn't seem to be moving, but the distance was enough that she could easily miss the subtle rise and fall of his breathing.

Especially under all that hair.

He must be a mass of hair from head to toe. No, the head was shaved. Even the top. There seemed to be a bristly crown of dark stubble on top, as if he hadn't shaved it for several days.

He ought to shave his belly, she thought.

She looked at it again. Still, she couldn't see any movement.

His gray pants hung low on his hips, showing the waistband of his underwear. Baggy boxer shorts. Striped. Donna looked down at his feet. His sneakers were soiled gray, and held together with tape.

"Sandy?"

"Hmmm?"

"Stay inside."

"What are you doing?" Fright in the girl's voice.

"I'm going out for a second."

"No!"

"He can't hurt us, honey."

"Please."

"I think he might be dead."

She opened the car door and climbed out carefully. She locked the door. Shut it. Tried it. Fingering the side of the car for balance, she eased herself down the slope. She stood above the man. He didn't move. She zipped her windbreaker, and knelt beside him.

"Hey," she said. She jiggled his shoulder. "Hey, are you okay?"

She pressed a hand flat against his chest, felt its rise and fall, felt the light throbbing of his heart.

"Can you wake up?" she asked. "I want to help you. Are you hurt?"

In the growing darkness, she didn't notice the moving, gloved hand until it grabbed her wrist.

With a startled yelp, Donna tried to twist free. She couldn't break the man's stiff grip.

His eyes opened.

"Let go. Please."

"It hurts," he said.

His hand squeezed more tightly. His grip felt strange. Glancing down, Donna saw that he was holding her with only two fingers and the thumb of his right hand. The other two glove fingers remained straight. With a vague stir of revulsion, she realized there were probably no fingers inside those parts of the glove.

"I'm sorry it hurts," Donna said, "but you're hurting me, now."

"You'll run."

"No. I promise."

His tight grip eased. "I wasn't going to hurt you," he said. He sounded as if he might cry. "I just wanted in. You didn't have to hurt me."

"I was frightened."

"I just wanted in."

"Where are you hurt?"

"Here." He pointed at the back of his head.

"I can't see."

Groaning, he rolled over. Donna saw the pale shape of a rock on the ground where his head had been. Though the night was too dark to be certain, there didn't seem to be blood on his head. She touched it, feeling the soft brush of his hair stubble, and found a lump. Then she inspected her fingers. She rubbed them together. No blood.

"I'm Axel," the man said. "Axel Kutch."

"I'm Donna. I don't think you're bleeding."

"Dah-nuh."

"Yes."

"Donna."

"Axel."

He got to his hands and knees and turned his face to her. "I just wanted in."

"That's okay, Axel."

"Do I have to go now?"

"No."

"Can I stay with you?"

"Maybe we can all go away. Will you drive us somewhere for help?"

"I drive good."

Donna helped him to stand. "Why don't we wait for the fog to lift, then you can drive us somewhere for help."

"Home."

"Your home?"

He nodded. "It's safe."

"Where do you live?"