About half an hour later, my father and I carried our luggage into a room at the Best Western motel in Lusk Wyoming.

Two queen beds lay in the room, which meant tonight was sure to be unpleasant for my sister, who would have to endure my thunderous snoring from within arm's reach. Likewise, I would suffer the same sensation one feels upon making contact with dry ice every time her feet touched me.

My father and I set down the luggage on the floor near the television.

Outside, the wind still howled, and bits of sand and dust pelted the window.

"What do we have to eat?" my father asked.

"Let's see..." my mother looked through the snacks bag. "Box of crackers... and... some grapes."

My father rolled his eyes. "Wonderful... ugh... that means Stephen and I have to go back out for more food."

I tensed up at the sound of my name, immediately wondering if it was safer to stay in the motel room, where the gnasher I'd spotted might find me, or safer to be on the move with my air-force veteran father close by.

I wrung my hands and raised an index finger. "Before we go... can I make a quick phone call?" I produced my cell phone from my pocket and flipped it open.

My father gave me such a look that one could swear I'd asked him if I could stop by Venus on our way to Narnia. "Who you calling?"

"Umm... well... I gotta call Dave."

"Dave?" my father repeated.

"His youth pastor," my mother said.

The look of incredulity on my father's face only intensified, and he folded his arms. "Why are you calling your youth pastor right now?"

I would have loved to have told him the truth. To simply say, "There's a gnasher in town, and it knows I'm a peacemaker. That means he'll probably come after me," that would have made everything so much easier. But my father knew nothing of gnashers, peacemakers, or any of the other paranormal stuff going on in the world that I'd come to understand. And, for that matter, he clearly thought I was strange, if not outright insane, and hadn't exactly kept those suspicions a secret.

"I have a question for him... something from the Bible I've been pondering."

"You've been pondering?" He smirked at my choice of words.

Annoyed, but trying carefully to watch my tone with him, lest his amusement give way to anger, I said, "Dad, come on... can I call him or not?"

I was operating blindly here. I knew what the monster out there was, but I had no idea how best to deal with it. Furthermore, there was something else going on in this town. Something which had caused that poor woman to spontaneously bleed in the middle of the gas station. As far as I knew, gnashers couldn't cause anything like that.

If I could talk to Pastor Dave, I'd at least have some idea of how to handle this situation beyond simply praying to God the gnasher wouldn't find me.

My father chuckled and shook his head at me. "You're a weird kid, Stephen. You can call Dave with your theological questions or whatever after we've picked up something for everyone to eat."

My heart sank. I'd have to go back outside, knowing a monster was out there, with no knowledge of how to deal with it.

As my dad and mom talked over what was nearby that he might be able to make it to even in the dust storm, I tried to figure out how I would approach the problem of calling Dave. I could just call him while my father and I were in the car, but even just hearing my half of the conversation my father was sure to think me psychotic, and I didn't want to go back on the pills.

Under the circumstances, though, there didn't seem to be a better option.

Soon, the two of us were back in the minivan, and I sat in the front, passenger's seat next to him as he drove slowly through the clouds of gray and brown. Pebbles and bits of debris snapped on the windshield and the driver's side of the vehicle, eliciting near-profanities from my father's tongue. "You buzzards... for cripes' sake..."

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I pulled out my phone and started dialing. The beeps of each button pressed drew my father's attention, "What are you doing?"

"Calling Dave," I calmly replied.

My father made a sound which seemed almost like an impression of a leaking tire, followed by an eye-roll.

The phone rang.

Then again.

And a third time.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Dave, this is Stephen... Stephen Wall."

"Oh, hey, brother! How's it going!"

"Things are..." I glanced back at my father, whose eyes were glued to the road ahead of him. "Well, they are what they are..."

"What's that I hear in the background?" Dave asked.

"The wind. It's kind of storming here," I replied. "Listen, though, I need to ask you a question."

"Oh, of course, brother!" Dave's chipper tone told me he hadn't yet read the sense of urgency or dread in my voice.

I cleared my throat and tried to lower my voice a little, in the vain hope that the noise from the storm might obscure my words from my father's ears. "You know that part in Proverbs where it talks about people with fangs like knives?"

At first, silence was the only reply to my question. In a lower voice, Dave asked, "Yes or no, did you see a gnasher?"

"Yes," I said.

"Are you safe right now?"

"I think so."

"Good." He sighed with relief. "Can you speak freely?"

"No."

"Alright, so... do you have the book I gave you?"

"I'm afraid not."

A sigh from the other end. "Ok, here's what you need to know about gnashers. They feed on human blood, first of all. They usually prefer to target the poor, homeless, and friendless because they're easier targets. So, just because you saw one doesn't mean you're in danger. If your family was with you, he probably considers you too much trouble." He cleared his throat, then continued. "They're afraid of crows and ravens, because those birds like to peck out their eyes. They can be killed by burying them alive, drowning--"

"That doesn't help me," I interrupted. As a peacemaker, I was incapable of taking life, whether human, animal, or monstrous. I'd stepped on spiders and ground my heel down onto it, only to watch it crawl away the second I lifted my foot.

"It's important to know anyway," he said. "In case you get help from someone who can kill it. Anyway, burying alive, drowning, stoning, and burning."

"There's something else too..." I thought for a moment about how best to describe what I'd seen in the gas station before I spotted the gnasher. I snuck a few glances at my father, who was still staring straight ahead at the road, his grip tight on the steering wheel. "Is there... umm... something in the Bible that might cause a woman to spontaneously bleed from wounds on her wrists? Stigmata, or something?"

A snort from my father.

"Stigmata is a myth," Dave replied. "But, tell me more. What did the wounds look like?"

"Umm..." I glanced again at my father, hesitant to answer the question.

Sensing my hesitation, Dave asked, "Like cuts? Long gashes down the forearms?"

"Yes."

"...And you don't think she did that herself?"

"No." I wanted to elaborate and describe Sheila's surprise, as well as the new wounds that formed, but I feared that would raise too many questions.

"Then you should check out Revelation 9:6."

The minivan jolted to a stop. "We're here," said my father, a hint of irritation in his voice. "Wrap it up."

"I've got to go," I said. "Thank you so much for this."

"Ok, just one more thing," Dave said. "The gnasher is probably--"

My father reached over and closed my phone, giving me a stern look and a shake of his head. "Can't we just have family time when we're on a trip? Seriously, we barely talk at home because you're always either busy with school, off with your churchy friends, or playing video games." I watched with inner agony as he took the phone from my hands and put it in his own pocket. "Tell me something, you've been going to that church youth group for a long time now... your pastor explained to you why God let evil in the world?"

"So that humans have free will," I said flatly.

"Tchh..." came my father's vexed reply. "So, the whole Eden thing, with the evil apple and all that, that was just so people could have free will?"

"Exactly," I said, trying my best not to let his cynicism infuriate me.

"So, the supposedly all-powerful, all-knowing, perfect God couldn't find a way to create free will without making evil an option?" His brow was furrowed, and the redness in his cheeks clearly showed he was getting angry the more we talked about it. "If your pastor can't come up with a good answer for that I'm not sure why you bother."

I opened my mouth to offer some sort of response, but even as I tried to form the words I feared that anything I said may make him angrier.

We pulled into a parallel parking space by the side of the road. After an uncomfortable, silent moment had passed, my father said, "Anyway, let's go." He unhooked his seat-belt and left the van, slamming the door behind him.

I followed suit. The powerful wind blew my hair into my face again. Shielding my eyes from the dust, I looked up at the sign above us.

"Pizza Place."

"Dang it!" my father shouted. "They're closed!"

"Because of the storm?" I yelled over the roaring winds.

"No, because it's Saturday. Of course because of the storm!"

I coughed and spat bits of grit out of my mouth.

With a groan, my father said, "Alright, back in the car!"

I scurried back into my seat and belted myself in. Now more frustrated than ever, my father slammed his door shut, put the vehicle in reverse, and peeled out of the parking spot.

Boom!

Whump.

Whump.

Whump.

My father cursed God, then threw the car into park and said, "A flat... gah! Come on..."

I unhooked my seat-belt again, and just as I prepared to step out of the minivan, I saw a pickup truck approaching. As I squinted, I noticed that the driver wore a wide-brimmed, tan cowboy hat, and a bandana over his mouth and nose.