Morning. A man stands outside Sheriff Donovan's door. He checks his watch and raps on the wood. A half asleep sheriff stirs. Taken aback at the realization he's in the real world, the lawman stumbles. His glass, long drained of its liquor but still grasped between his fingertips, falls to the floor. Glass and melted ice transform into silver shards. Donovan looks at his puddle of a chalice, tries to hide the bottle perched atop the corner of his desk, and smells his breath as he makes his way forward. He's spent the entire night here.

"A moment!" Donovan calls out. The not-entirely-awake man, coming to the door, swings his arms at a strip of locks. Turning, unscrewing, and otherwise opening a dozen deadbolts, the sheriff's greeted by the bitter gaze of the morning sun. "Yes?"

A silhouette in the shape of a priest stands there. His ancient eyes strain behind heavy whiskers. Black vestments render elegant a gnarled thing. Old bones push their way past Donovan, the pastor not waiting to be invited in. He holds a hat box. His cane crushes the sheriff's foot.

"Pastor Breybinder, I wasn't expecting..." Donovan starts.

"To see me! Ever!" Breybinder shouts. "That's the problem!"

"What?" Donovan mutters. "It's early. I'm asleep." Donovan goes to find a chair for the old man, but Breybinder marches directly to the sheriff's desk. He seats himself in the sheriff's chair, and the sheriff comes to rest atop the fruits of his quest. He rocks right on a rickety stool. Donovan tries to keep his eyes open. He rocks left.

"How long have you been here?" Breybinder asks.

"Two years," Donovan answers. The sheriff casts his vision about the office. Boxes line the walls. They gather into stacks, which turn into piles, which spill into messes. Half the boxes are Donovan's things, still not unpacked, and the other crates the previous sheriff's personal effects.

"Sheriff, how many deputies have you sent to My Father's kingdom during this time?" Breybinder inquires, his eyes on the yellowed image of Fanning, Tennant, Jonas, Elliott, Day, Shetland, and Amsterdam.

"Seven..." The sheriff speaks, the number sour on his tongue.

"And other than the funerals for your men, how many times have you met with me?" Breybinder wonders.

"There was that first introduction..." Donovan thinks aloud.

"Yes, and after that?" Breybinder grins behind his bristles.

"I see people on their way to your church. I can somewhat see the chapel if I squint my eyes from the porch," Donovan mumbles, not having an answer for the priest.

"Am I supposed to laugh?" Breybinder hisses.

"I'm sorry, Leon. I'm not making jokes. I'm just not up yet. Can you come back after, you know, the rooster wakes?" Donovan yawns. A cock crows.

"We need to speak," Breybinder states.

Donovan scratches his head and crosses his arms. He doesn't get the game the old man's playing and pauses for a moment, pondering if he's still asleep and Breybinder's part of a dream gone awry.

"Isn't that what we're doing now?" Donovan returns with a smile. He rocks right. "If you wanted to exchange a few pleasantries, that's done, and you can now be on your way. I imagine there are plenty of people in this town who need to be introduced to the Lord, and I don't want to keep you from all the little orphans lacking an education in eternal damnation." Breybinder wrinkles his already wrinkled face. His antique eyebrows arch.

"How dare you speak to your elder in that tone!" The priest explodes. Breybinder slams his cane on the floor. The sheriff's stool shakes. "That's the problem with this town! You have no respect! You children have no clue what's truly important! The girls at the Guinevere are so loud my congregation can't pray!"

"So, it's a noise complaint, then?" Donovan yawns. He rocks left. He goes into a box looking for the appropriate paperwork. "Where'd Stephens put the form?"

"I already have your deputy out investigating the matter," Breybinder tells.

"Of course, you do," Donovan sighs. He rolls his eyes. He leans back on his stool. Uneven legs giving way, the sheriff topples. He rights himself, centers his weight, and focuses on the crossed man.

"Well, if that's the case, then was there really a need for you to interrupt my sleep? I'll be sure your complaint is processed, and you're free now to go about your day. I heard the liquor store has a sale on sacramental wine," the sheriff mumbles. Breybinder shows no sign of leaving. Still planted there in Donovan's chair, the old man looks into the sheriff for a long time. A cock crows.

"There's more..." Breybinder begins in a voice no longer volcanic. "The night before last, there were noises in the graveyard."

"Wild dogs digging up bones?" Donovan dismisses.

"Please, take me seriously," Breybinder urges. The priest's words come soft and slow. Timid. He's afraid. "There were noises. I listened at the altar and prayed all night so no evil would enter the church. When morning came, I went out. Tombstones were shattered, and I found something."

"What?" Donovan asks, not the slightest bit intrigued.

Pastor Breybinder places his hat box atop the sheriff's desk. A chill biting whenever he draws close, the old man's hands shift for a time before he pulls the lid off in one deliberate attack. A deep breath. Breybinder reaches in and drops Liam Macintosh's rotting head before the sheriff.

"Jesus!" Donovan jumps back. In an instant, he's on the other side of his office. Far against the far wall, the man holds his hands over his heart so it doesn't escape his chest. He gasps. With wide eyes, the sheriff looks over the severed head. Gruff, dirty, green, and dead, the thing is a muddled lump of flesh filled with lacerations. It looks like it was trampled by a fleet of horses. It appears to have been dropped on sharp stones from a great bluff. Bones protrude from thin linen skin, and coagulated blood holds its brain in place in the way the forlorn object's shattered skull should. Pastor Breybinder sits behind the decapitated head, his whole frame trembling. Fragile fingers mime the shape of a cross in the air.

"Please, don't take the Lord's name in vain," Breybinder utters. He says no more, only folding his hands together and looking on silently at the skull. Frozen. Donovan swallows hard and takes some steps back toward the desk, the priest, and the head.

"Well... I think... I'll have a word... With the undertaker..." Donovan stutters.

"Thank you," Breybinder smiles. "I pray this is just a prank by some misguided boys and not the work of a more sinister force..." Breybinder pauses for a moment, observing the panic in the sheriff's face. "You do know why this town had a vacancy in the sheriff's office, don't you?"

"I've been told stories," Donovan speaks.

"Oh, they're not stories," Breybinder breathes. "They're the Gospel Truth."

Something dead shows in Donovan's eyes. No words come to his lips.

"Well, I must be off. Someone told me about a sale at the liquor store," Breybinder muses. He taps on the sheriff's desk beside the hat box. "I pray for this town, and I pray for you personally every night. Please do look into this matter for me." And with that, the old man rises, bowing as he turns to exit. He moves quickly toward the door but stops across from the sheriff. Breybinder looks Donovan over. He rubs his whiskers. He wrinkles his nose. He leans in close and whispers. "You ought to come by my chapel more often. Your boys are buried in my sand, and I'm sure they'd appreciate a visit. And if you're not a believer, at least we've got better hooch." The pastor departs.

Donovan stands there, not moving until Breybinder is out the door. Then, with the old man's wizened shadow creeping down the street, the sheriff lifts a hand to his lips and sniffs his breath. He spits. He turns around to Macintosh's leaking head.

"Jesus!"