I.

Henry Buchanan relished his brutally accurate foresight. He was an actuary for an insurance company. He predicted how many people would die from cars crashing, arteries clogging, lungs failing, bullets tearing through flesh. While some may have deemed Henry’s job rather grim, he never had been the least bit bothered by the nature of his forecasts. Call them regrettable, if you like. Wish they were otherwise, if you like. But Henry knew that, in time, the faceless herd would be culled, and the dead would pile up according to his numerical prophecies. If you feared being among them, you had but one choice: Pray that the type of disease or accident or absurd tragedy to which Henry had turned his attention would happen to someone else. 

Henry spent his days in a cubicle on the 27th floor of a 52-floor office building. He began his calculations at 9:30 sharp every morning, ate lunch at his desk from noon to 12:30, and left the office at 6 o’clock in the evening. He usually had no need to speak with his fellow employees, except on the rare occasion when his computer had a glitch, or his internet connection was not behaving properly. But Henry always had preferred it that way. He had no need for input or opinions from others; the raw data and mathematical formulas were all he needed to divine the count of inevitable casualties.

And so it was that Henry spent his days, without distractions, wrapped in self-assured detachment from the human suffering forecast. But one Monday afternoon, while poring over cancer statistics and calculating the number of future deaths in various geographical areas, age groups, and ethnicities, Henry found his eyes drifting from his computer. He rose from his swivel-backed chair, perplexed by this uncharacteristic lapse in focus, thinking that perhaps all he needed was a good stretch. On doing so, he saw a young, frail woman in what appeared to be a hospital gown, staring at him from the other side of the office. He peered over the partition of his cubicle, and watched her, wraithlike, avert her gaze and slowly begin walking around the office.

Henry looked down into the cubicle closest to him where a bald man was staring intently at his computer monitor, typing. “Bob,” Henry said in a loud whisper, hoping he’d correctly remembered the man’s name. Bob kept typing, staring at the monitor. Henry cleared his throat, trying to attract Bob’s attention, but Bob didn’t look up. “Bob,” Henry said aloud.

Bob looked up, squinting. Henry motioned with his head. “Who’s that?” 

Bob rolled his chair back and looked around the partition of his cubicle in the direction Henry indicated. Then he looked up at Henry. “Who?”

Henry looked back at Bob. “Her,” Henry said, nodding and motioning with his hands for Bob to stand up so he could see.

Bob rolled his eyes but stood. He looked. Then he turned back to Henry and raised both hands, palms up. “What are you talking about?” 

“Jesus Christ,” Henry said. “Forget it.” He sat down, wondering what the hell was wrong with Bob. He resolved to get back to work, continue his calculations. But try as he might, he couldn’t get the woman off his mind. He slowly rose again and peeked over his cubicle, but she was nowhere to be seen. Strange, Henry thought. He walked to the kitchen, fetched a cup of black coffee. He returned to his desk, restarted his calculations, and worked until 6 o’clock. 

II.

Henry began work promptly at 9:30 on Tuesday morning, but within a half hour he felt the same gnawing distraction that had bedeviled him the day before. He rose from his chair and saw two young men with jet-black hair and tattooed arms circling each other with menacing glares. Suddenly, they pulled switchblades from their jeans pockets and began thrusting and parrying, trying their best to outmaneuver each other. Henry stared, his jaw slackening. Bob looked up and, seeing Henry, immediately turned his head and looked down at his keyboard.

Henry walked away from his cubicle, watching the young men race around him, dodging and brandishing their knives, one now bleeding from a wound on his forearm. Henry began turning about in a tight circle, looking around the office. None of the other employees appeared to be paying the least bit of attention to the men or the fight. Henry walked around the cubicles, hoping that someone would turn and nod or at least raise an eyebrow to acknowledge that, indeed, this dangerous pair had invaded the office and one of them was likely to get killed. But no one appeared to have noticed anything out of the ordinary.

Henry staggered back to his desk. For the next two hours he concentrated on his calculations, fighting the urge to get up and look around. At noon he went to the kitchen to fetch his lunch. To his surprise, he saw an octogenarian couple, the skin of their faces waxy and jaundiced, dancing the tango around the plastic tables and chairs, where groups of Henry’s fellow employees sat, obliviously munching potato chips and sipping vitamin water.

Henry grabbed his brown bag from the refrigerator and returned to his cubicle. He pulled from the bag a peanut butter sandwich, unwrapped it, and quickly took a bite. He chewed, tasting the sweet, salty peanut butter. A couple months ago, he’d remembered the peanut butter sandwiches—Jif Creamy—that his mother had made him as a child. One day, he’d decided to make one for a snack. Then he’d started packing them for lunch. Soon he’d end up disappointed if, instead, he packed a turkey sandwich or a cup of noodles or some cheese and crackers. 

Henry finished the sandwich. He looked into the bag and saw a large red apple and container of vanilla pudding. But he was no longer hungry. He took the bag back to the refrigerator, being careful to avoid a man riding a bicycle with a look of terror on his face careening out of the kitchen just as Henry approached.

III.

As the days passed, life got no easier for Henry. The people whom only he seemed to see multiplied, and he became more and more distressed. He struggled to get work done and he worried that he might be making mistakes. He gradually lost his appetite until the sight and smell of food nauseated him. Except for the peanut butter. Only the peanut butter eased his pain, melting between his tongue and the roof of his mouth, unctuous, soothing. He knew the strange people were still there, but when he was eating peanut butter, he could ignore them, concentrate on his pleasure. He’d partake of the salty-sweet comfort and wait as long as he could before drinking. Then he’d take only a small glass of water, just enough to keep him from choking, not enough to wipe out the lingering relief. 

Soon, however, Henry received the email he’d been dreading, summoning him to the office of his boss, Mr. Hutchins. Henry obeyed, knocked on the door and heard a voice telling him to enter. Mr. Hutchins was sitting behind his desk, stern-faced, hands folded. He motioned for Henry to take a seat.

“You must know you’re behind in your work, Mr. Buchanan. And there have been errors. This is unlike you.”

Henry nodded. He considered telling his boss about the unwelcome people who had invaded his world but decided that it was likely to cause more harm than good. “I know, sir. I’m having some trouble concentrating, I guess.” 

Mr. Hutchins stared at Henry. “Frankly, Mr. Buchanan, you look like hell. You must’ve lost twenty pounds in the last month or so. Are you sick?”

Henry shook his head no.

“Are you sleeping?”

“Yes, some. Well, not much, I guess.”

“Are you eating?”

“Yes.” Henry hesitated. “Well, yes, peanut butter.”

“Peanut butter? You don’t mean only peanut butter, do you?”

“It’s all I want to eat. It’s all I need. It sustains me.”

 “For Christ’s sake.” Mr. Hutchins' eyes narrowed. You need to eat more than peanut butter.” He stared at Henry.

Henry remained silent.

“You should see a doctor, Mr. Buchanan. I’m not an expert. But the trouble concentrating, the insomnia, the loss of appetite except for the craving of a sweet food? I’ve known others with these problems. How should I put this? Well, they needed help. Do you understand?”

Henry frowned, looked away. 

“Let me be more direct: mental illness, Mr. Buchanan. It can happen to anyone—stress, despair, something just not right in your life. It’s not something to fool around with.”

Henry shrugged and looked at Mr. Hutchins. “I don’t think that’s it, sir. I don’t think that’s it at all.”

Mr. Hutchins again stared at Henry, took a deep breath. “You should see a doctor. That’s my advice.”

Henry forced a smile. “Thank you, Mr. Hutchins. But I know what I must do. I must concentrate, get back to work. I’m not asking for any special treatment.”

“Very well, Mr. Buchanan. You’re an adult. It’s your life. But you have to bring your work back up to our standards.”

Henry nodded. “Of course. Thank you, sir.” He stood and walked back to his cubicle.

IV.

Despite his promise to Mr. Hutchins, Henry could not escape his malaise. He couldn’t concentrate with strangers parading around the office each day, strangers he knew he was seeing, regardless of the indifference of the other employees. 

Upon returning to his apartment in the evenings, frustrated and exhausted, he’d lock the doorknob and the dead bolt, then slide the chain lock into place. He’d feel safe for a moment. But whenever he’d slowly push back the curtain on his front window, he’d see them, he’d see their faces, looking at him, pointing in his direction.

Soon the people began entering Henry’s apartment. They came when he tried to sleep. They marched behind his closed eyelids, around and around inside his head, in and out of his ears. If he dozed off, he’d soon awaken, startled, to see them walking toward him. He tried to crowd them out with other thoughts, but they still came, incessantly. He tried to ignore them, but they were ubiquitous.

Henry grew more and more exhausted every day. He called Mr. Hutchins and quit his job. He stumbled between his bed—where trying to sleep was futile—to his living room couch, where sleeping was equally impossible. He stared at the ceiling and watched the people march.

 His only remaining comfort was the peanut butter. He kept a jar of Jif Creamy by his bedside and another on the coffee table next to the couch. When the taste would leave him, he would face the people again. He would lay prone, eyes shut tight. He had nothing else left to fight them or escape them.

V.

Henry’s supply of peanut butter dwindled, but he couldn’t muster the strength to leave his apartment and go shopping for more. One gray afternoon, his lips began to move slowly, instinctually, whispering words half-formed. He realized he was praying, mouthing phrases taught him as a child, stored in some long-dormant cranny of his brain. He formed the syllables more deeply within, feeling them reverberate in his throat. He pronounced them loudly, as if speaking could scare off the people who were tormenting him. He clasped his hands in front of his heart. 

“Make them go now,” Henry prayed to a god he’d long ago ceased to consider relevant to his world. “Let me rest, let me sleep.” He closed his eyes, breathed, waited for the silence.

But then he saw the people and realized that they, too, were praying, some reciting familiar words of prayers he knew, others chanting in unrecognizable languages. Their words intermixed, overlapped, and echoed in his ears. Some of them were writhing on the ground, some bent at the knees, some stretching their arms to the sky. Some were children, some old men. Mothers held crying babies. Some were sick, some were dying. They all were praying, beseeching their gods.

He didn’t have a chance, Henry thought. He covered his ears, deafening himself to the cacophony of prayer. He couldn’t compete with them, couldn’t compete with the incurable cancers, the deformed limbs, the blind eyes. He couldn’t compete with the dying children or with the parents who were losing them. How could his prayers be answered when he of all people knew to a statistical certainty that theirs would not?

He reached out to the coffee table, grabbed the Jif jar, and unscrewed the lid. There was little left inside. He picked up a knife, circled it inside the jar, and put the knife in his mouth. The voices softened, then disappeared. 

VI.

Henry tried not to think of what would happen when the jar was empty. Please, he found himself thinking. Please, more. He stopped, momentarily, remembering the futility of his prayers. But then the vision of the people, broken down in prayer, hit him like a lightning bolt. And at that moment he realized that in all their agony and sorrow, they were praying, but they were not praying for peanut butter. He was not one of them. He was different, unique, and in his difference and uniqueness was the hope that their fate was not his.

Henry held the last jar of peanut butter, gazing into its near emptiness, then setting it on the living room floor. He found two candles in small glass cups. He opened a box of tin foil, molded a large piece into a half dome. He placed the half dome behind the jar to approximate a grotto. He placed a candle on each side and lit them.

Henry knelt before the jar and bowed his head. He folded his hands in front of his heart and began to pray. Please, make them go away, he prayed to the peanut butter god, his god. Make them stop, make them leave. Let me rest, let me sleep. He bowed his head and waited for the silence. As the candles burned, flickering and reflecting in the tin foil grotto, silence came to him, and he was thankful. 

Henry closed his eyes, saw no one. He opened his eyes, looked around, saw nothing but the walls of his apartment, his furniture, his dark and mute TV screen. 

Henry scraped and scratched the inside of the jar with the knife until he accumulated enough for one last tasting. He held the knife with both hands above his head, giving thanks. Then he tilted his head back and turned the coated blade toward his open mouth. He slowly moved the knife into his mouth, closed his lips over the blade, and let it remain between his tongue and the roof of his mouth.

He pulled the knife out of his mouth, and put it and the jar back into the grotto. He waited, watching the jar for some change, some sign that his prayers would be answered. Please, he said to himself. “Please,” he repeated aloud, “more. Please. More.” He breathed, breathed, waited, waited.

VII.

As afternoon turned into evening, the doorbell suddenly rang. Henry, still sitting in front of the grotto, was startled. He jerked his head toward the door. He was unsure whether to rise, to answer. He pondered as the candles flickered.

Henry rose slowly, feeling dizzy. He staggered a few steps, gained balance. He walked to the door and put an eye to the peephole. A young man with a goatee, appearing to be in his late teens, pushed his face close to the peephole. Henry listened, heard other voices.

Henry stepped back. Who were they? Why should he answer? They will go away, he thought. The doorbell rang again. He waited.

“Motherfucker,” Henry heard a voice say. “Don’t any of these humps answer their doorbells?”

“Shut up,” another voice hissed. “What the hell’s the matter with you?”

Henry stepped forward toward the door, still wondering why he didn’t just ignore them. “What do you want?” he asked loudly.

“Hello? We’re selling candy,” a voice responded. “For a good cause.”

Henry paused, thought. “What’ve you got?”

“We got M&Ms, Snickers. And Reese’s. Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups.”

Henry unlocked the dead bolt and opened the door, leaving the chain lock in place. He peered through the opening between the door and the jamb. There were three young males, all wearing dark hooded sweatshirts. The one with the goatee was in the middle. To his right, stood one with a long scar across his check. The other had a face speckled with acne. They had a red wagon stacked with boxes of candy.

Henry looked down at the wagon. “The Reese’s, how much?”

“Twenty-five bucks a box,” Goatee said, glancing at Scar. “There’re sixteen packs in a box, bro. Good deal. And it’s for a good cause.” He looked down at the boxes. “The local Community Center over on State Street.” He smiled, showing two gold front teeth.

“I mean, how many?” Henry said. “How many boxes you got?”

Scar looked at the wagon. “Six. We got six boxes of the Reese’s.”

Goatee grinned. “You want ‘em all, bro? That’s a one-fifty value. But you take ‘em all, and we’ll give ‘em to you for one twenty-five.”

“Wait a minute,” Henry said, closing the door. He headed to his bedroom.

“You coming back?” a voice shouted.

Henry went to his top drawer and took out his cash box. Two fifties, a twenty, a five. He walked back, unfastened the chain lock, and opened the door. He held out the money.

Goatee grinned again, took the money. Scar picked up the boxes from the wagon, handed them across the threshold.

Henry took the boxes and set them inside. He noticed that all three young men were looking past him into the apartment, scattered with clothes and old newspapers, candles flickering in the Jif jar grotto.

“Nice doing business with you, bro,” Goatee said.

Henry closed, locked, and dead bolted the door, then heard fading laughter. 

VIII.

The three young men in dark hooded sweatshirts strode down the street.

“Dude was weird,” Goatee said.

“Some kind of motherfucking cult,” Scar said.

“Fuck it,” said the third. “We got one two five. Let’s unload the rest of this shit and go home.”

IX.

Henry moved the boxes to the front of the tinfoil grotto. He took the knife and stabbed it into one box, ripping its cover. He opened one of the orange-wrapped packs. Two chocolate-covered candies sat in crinkly brown papers. He grabbed one of the candies between his thumb and index finger, feeling the chocolate soften against the warmth of his skin. He closed his eyes and raised the candy to his mouth. He bit into it, tasting the smooth sweetness of the chocolate and peanut butter center. He chewed slowly, breathing deeply. He took another bite, chewed. He opened another package, ate the candy, then opened another. He ate until he wanted no more.

He looked at the jar between the flickering candles. He smiled. “Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you.” He gently blew out the candles. Then he curled up on the floor and went to sleep.

X.

Two blocks from Henry’s apartment was a vacant lot with tall weeds. A thirteen-year-old boy lay there, beaten, bleeding, unconscious. The boy had gone out to sell candy for his middle school. His teachers had given him a variety of boxes; six were Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. He’d put them in his little brother’s red wagon and had set out to sell them in the neighborhood. He’d prayed that by the end of the day, he wouldn’t have any left. It could happen, he’d thought. It was for a good cause.

XI.

Mr. Hutchins was halfway through the stack of reports on his desk when he came to the last one that Henry Buchanan had completed. Mr. Hutchins read that the city was home to 7,866 boys between the ages of thirteen and fifteen. He read on, nodding as he followed Henry’s calculations, satisfied that they were accurate. He reached the conclusion, noting Henry’s prediction that four of those boys would be murdered that year—and one of them would be thirteen.