his way."

"He's insane!" Nat said flatly. "All the way over, he talked about nothing but dying. Told us we could come here and die any way we wanted. If any of us wanted to go out like Early Christians, he would be only too happy to set up an arena for us. He even asked me if I wanted to put my name down for a rehash of Custer's Last Stand for 2013. With real bullets!" He passed his hand nervously through his thinning hair. "For God's sake, he must think I want to get scalped!"

"Didn't Dr. Van Stoke come with you?" Mr. Sims asked. "I wanted him to see the place he sends everyone."

"He went on an ocean cruise," young Mike said.

"Dr. Van Stoke? You mean he left his practice?"

"Yeah," the little boy answered. "Another doctor took his place."

Mr. Sims turned to the others for corroboration. "Is that right? I didn't think Van Stoke was a rich man. He was only around forty."

"He went with the money Uncle Nat gave him," the boy said.

"That'll be enough, Michael," Nat ordered sternly.

Mr. Sims laughed. "You're mistaken, Mike. Uncle Nat wouldn't give the doctor any money. He hasn't even got enough for himself."

"But he quit his job yesterday," said the boy.

Nat's voice cut in sharply. "That's enough from you. You know what they say about little boys."

Mr. Sims looked steadily at Nat as though seeing him for the first time. His cousin gazed back, half-sullen, half-defiant.

"It certainly didn't take you long to get your hands on the money," Mr. Sims said. "It looks as if I can't die soon enough. But I still don't see where Dr. Van Stoke comes into—"

Then suddenly there was no need to ask. The answer was clear on Nat's tight, sullen face.

Mr. Sims turned to the others for help and froze as identical expressions stared back coldly from each of them, piercing him with their long-hidden envy of his success, their pent-up hatred of their dependence on him.

A choking, frightened sound came from deep in Mr. Sims' throat. "For 

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