Owen Greene uses his muddy feet as an excuse not to come in, although it's his superstitious nature holding him back. He stands one step below the kitchen door cocking his head to one side. The caretaker has never looked more like a confused dog, and this is saying something.

A few birds chirp in the distance. Otherwise no noise breaks the afternoon's stillness. This silence amplifies the slow, consistent tom-tom beat of pain behind Skad's eyes.

As the moment stretches on, he begins to feel foolish.

When he mentioned the problem of the phone ringing all the time, he hadn't expected the device to oblige him and start up its damn racket on the spot. But Owen seemed to. He tilted his head and listened for it. Now Skad has let this idiocy go on too long, and it must appear as though he's also waiting for the ring.

"Alright. Alright. It's not doing it now. But it's been going night and day." To justify the current silence, he adds, "On and off."

"And who's on the other end?"

"I told you: nobody. Nobody is calling. Dead air. The blasted thing is broken."

"Why would it ring if it were broken?"

Is this little man playing with him? Is he needling him by acting dumb? No, history has proven it was no act. If Skad hadn't gone well over a week with no sleep he would never resort to the desperate act of asking Owen Green for help.

The lack of sleep has become worrying. Movement dances in his periphery whenever he turns his head. Voices come to him clear and sharp, as real as any he's ever heard. Except, every time it's just a single word and he's always alone. Pain has taken up residence in his head while a permanent queasiness has settled in his gut. Skad frequently imagines himself being shredded by the wind. A light breeze blowing on his body and fragmenting it, pulling away one strand of flesh at a time. They sail away like strips of brittle old newspaper.

He's considered smashing the phone. Going out to the garage for a hammer and bashing it into unrecognizable pieces. But this is not the sane way to approach the problem. The rational thing is to have it repaired.

Skad refuses to acknowledge the fear niggling at him that destroying it might not stop the ringing. Perhaps it's not the phone at all. Maybe the tormenting peal will come for him, whether the phone is there or not.

But this is an inane thought. He's not thinking straight. All he needs is some goddamn sleep.

"I don't know why it rings," His throat is tight and his voice is a growl. "What I'm asking is, can you do anything about it?"

Owen's neck cranes to the right to get a good look inside without moving any closer. He takes out a rag and wipes his hands while pondering the mystery. "Don't know much about phones myself. But like they say, when things are at their worst, they'll either get better or die. I say give it some time, Mr. Skadding."

Skad pinches the bridge of his nose. This quaint piece of hokum has made his headache explode. For a second, he wonders if he's having a stroke. This is the sort of meaningless garbage he heard all the time as a child. The people around Lake Sauvage wallow in these trite phrases like pigs in shit.

He gathers his strength to speak again, firing each word out as single, self-contained, projectiles. Bullets to strike the man dead, with any luck. "Do. You. Know. Anyone. That. Can. Help?"

"You should call the phone company. They'll fix it up."

Skad walks away, into the dark house, leaving the son-of-a-bitch behind. It takes Owen a ridiculous amount of time to realize Skad's not coming back, but finally the screen door closes signaling his departure.

Five minutes later the phone rings.