A muggy Georgia night. The radio crackles and hums. We roll up blacked out—no lights, no sirens. Screaming and glass shattering behind a house and we know we’re right on time. Blood runs down his arms like rain. I’m satan, he says, I’m the devil. His eyes spin and roll. You need to kill me, he says. Send me back to hell.

A cold Kentucky night. Christmas decorations twinkle and burn into the night. Blacked out again. No lights, no sirens, we fly to our barracks. We hold our breath. We walk through empty bottles of rum and whiskey and tequila and find him around a corner. Another knife. Another red face with spinning eyes. Oh good, he says. Henry. I know you’ll do it. Shoot me.

A rainy California night. He wears no shoes or pants or hat. Blood and spit and mud clot his thick beard. I have thirteen dollars in my pocket and I’ll give it all to you right now if you’ll send me to heaven. Please, he pleads, I’m so tired.

I know, I say. Me too. And I push him back into the rain.