A tiny spider crawls across the bathroom floor. Dogs bark from far away. Torn blankets covered the boy.

He sat in the rocking chair, flipping through channels. News programs, midnight movies, old television shows, and a cooking program flash across the screen. The fat man sips coffee and chews on miniature candy bars in a glass dish beside him. He looks over at the wrapped body; he ain’t moving.

A cigarette burns in the ashtray. The big man rolls another. He is skilled at this. In the homeless shelters, he used to sell packs of them for a few bucks. That was back in Denver when he was traveling across the country in a rusted Chevy pickup. Long hair blowing in the breeze with the windows down. Radio tuned to different stations as he hopped from one town to another. Talk radio, oldies, and country music kept him awake along with the smells of alfalfa fields, cow shit, and diesel exhaust. He was a long way from Albuquerque.

But now, a body lies there with a couple of bullet holes in it. Johnny walked over and kicked the dead hustler. Not moving, are you? He says. Stay right there. Don’t go anywhere. He laughs and grabs a gas can from under the kitchen sink. Johnny skips around the stiff and pours gasoline all over the blankets. That should do it.

A match is lit and thrown. Another and another are tossed down and begin to ignite. He watches for a bit. Says goodbye. And walks out the door.

As Johnny pulls out of the driveway, he watches as the whole house catches fire. He stops for a minute from down the dirt road and nods his head.

Doing the Lord’s work, he whispers. Doing the Lord’s work.