Little LeRoy LaMarque bolted out the back door into the yard. He placed the box with the machine in it in the middle of the yard, on the dewy grass. The bloody handprints on the box were still wet.

The box smelled bad. It smelled awful, actually. Much worse than it should. It was as if the machine was decomposing at a much faster rate than it should be expected to.

The dog started howling inside the house. This worried Little LeRoy, because the dog shouldn’t be howling anymore. It shouldn’t be doing anything.

And if the dog could be howling, then it was possible that Mr. Max might start howling, too. Or he might start doing something else entirely, something worse. Something that Little LeRoy didn’t want him to do.

Little LeRoy would have to go back inside.