The air in the barn was warm and full of hay, but beneath it lay something else – heavy, musty. Bill raised the lantern. Light swam over bales, tools, tack hanging from pegs. Somewhere, something rasped, sharp and labored.

“There,” Jim said.

At the far end, where the boards gapped and the moon pushed in thin fingers, something moved. Too slow for a thief, too clumsy for a man in a hurry. Bill lifted the lantern higher.

The face that came out of shadow had once been Zachary Tull’s – the hand who’d left a week ago to check on his folks. The skin hung from his skull like clothing too big. Lips split open, teeth showing, pale as bone. His eyes were milky – but not blind. They found the two men. They needed no words to say what they wanted.

Bill felt his stomach rise – not from disgust, but something closer to grief. “Zachary,” he said dumbly, as if a name could pin down what was already gone.

The figure made a sound – not a word, not a sigh. More the echo of a name called underwater. Then he came forward. Not hurried – inevitable.

“Head,” Jim said softly. “If you have to.”

Bill raised the rifle. His finger balked. He remembered Zachary laughing when the mules stomped through the freshly raked yard. “’Scuse me, ma’am,” to Irvin’s cow when he knocked over the feed bucket. The way he sang something that sounded like home when the dusk came.

Zachary lunged suddenly, faster than his shuffle promised, as if someone had slipped the leash. Bill fired. The kick thumped his shoulder. Zachary fell – but not because the bullet had stopped him, only because his legs were clumsy. He rolled, gave a hollow growl, and hauled himself to his knees.

“Head, Bill,” Jim said. “Now.”

Bill glanced at Jim’s eyes and found no cynicism there, no rush. Only the calm hardness of a man who knew how to send someone to their final death. Bill exhaled, took aim, and fired. Zachary went still.

They stood a long moment, lantern between them, gunsmoke hanging. The windmill clacked again. As if nothing had happened. But Bill knew the world had gone quieter – because a name was missing from it.

“I’m sorry,” Jim said.

“Me too,” Bill answered.

They dragged Zachary’s body to the shed wall. Bill barred a door he never barred. Then they went back to the house.