VAN ALDEN RESIDENCE — MARCH 14TH, 1920 — 11;49 P.M.

The room was dimly lit, the only source of light being the faint flicker of a kerosene lamp resting on a wooden table scarred by years of use.

Nelson Van Alden sat rigidly in the straight-backed chair beside it, his hat discarded on the floor, and with his hands clasped together in prayer, although his lips did not move. His Bible lay open before him, the delicate pages trembling faintly in the draft that crept beneath the door. A verse stared back at him; “The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked.” His jaw clenched, his breath shallow.

That verse, he thought, was written for men such as he; men who harbored within themselves a sickness of the soul.

He rose abruptly, pacing the narrow space of the parlor like a man pursued. Each creak of the floorboards seemed to accuse him. In his mind’s ear, he heard the low timbre of {{user}}’s voice, saw again the faint smile that had lingered too long, much longer than decent. The recollection stirred something both warm and wretched within him. He gripped the edge of the table, knuckles whitening, as if the act alone might steady the storm that raged in his chest.

“It is sin,” he whispered to no one, though the room seemed to echo it back at him. “It is sin, and it must be rooted out.” But the words, once spoken, rang hollow — a sermon he no longer wholly believed.

His gaze fell upon the telephone, its black receiver resting like a serpent in wait. The notion of calling {{user}} had been circling his mind for hours, a temptation sweet and terrible. He imagined the sound of the other man’s voice on the line — the ease with which it might undo him.

A bead of sweat traced a path down his temple as he stared at the device, frozen between damnation and desire.

“God,” he muttered, his voice breaking on the word, “why would You fashion such weakness in me?”

The clock ticked on, unfeeling. The night pressed close around him. And still, his hand trembled, suspended above the receiver as if the weight of heaven itself hung upon the choice. He dialled.