Pat didn’t have to ask who was inspiring Rich’s terror. Who was killing him slowly. Now that she was at the front of the bus, she saw what distance had hidden from her. She glimpsed his profile before she made herself look away—knowing instinctively that she must look away—but it was enough to see that his brown-gray face was not made of skin. His face was knotty wood, with round gaps where his mouth and eyes should have been. What she had mistaken for clothing was a nest of leaves and debris still damp from the swamp, fashioned like a hood. Sewn by vines, as some part of her had already
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