Vanished: In The Blink of an Eye (A Modern Left Behind Series Spin-off #1)

Chapter 20

****
Carl enjoyed visiting London, and he and Donna experienced the afternoon tea at The Ritz, the Tower of London, Buckingham Palace, and Westminster Abbey—the grandeur of the city temporarily dulling the unease that had settled in his gut.

Carl recalled that about a year ago, Buck had done a story for the Global Weekly on British terrorism, interviewing Alan Tompkins from the Scotland Yard. Dirk had introduced Carl to Alan, a thin, dark-haired, and slightly rumpled-looking man who was about 30 years old. Dirk, Alan, and Buck had become pals, and whenever Buck visited, the three got together.

“So I guess that the Three Stooges are still together,” Carl said, nudging Dirk’s shoulder as they strolled past Westminster Abbey’s towering spires.

“I guess you could say that, Carl. Buck is the Larry, Alan is the Curly, and I’m the Moe”, Dirk said with a grin, steering them toward a tucked-away pub—the smell of ale and roasted meat thick in the air. “So did Buck fly to London as well?”

Carl shook his head. “He’s got another story cover. Although he was just telling me about he hired a new intern at the New York City office. A high school kid named Connor.”

“Really? College preparation?” Dirk raised an eyebrow, sliding into the booth with practiced ease.

“I guess so. Buck says Connor attends Manhattan High School— taking AP journalism classes, apparently. Bright kid, but skeptical about everything.”

“Have you actually met him?”

Carl shook his head. "Only heard Buck's stories—kid's got a sharp tongue and sharper instincts. Said Connor dismantled a source's argument in five minutes flat during their first meeting."

“Maybe you should meet him when you go back to the States. Kid sounds like your kind of challenge.”

Carl nodded. “Maybe.” He glanced at Donna—her fingers tracing the rim of her teacup—then back at Dirk. “But right now, Greenland’s got my attention. The US acquisition, the currency shifts—it’s all moving faster than I expected.”

“Ah, yes. And you recall the Brexit, when the UK left the European Union?” Dirk leaned forward, lowering his voice despite the pub’s din.

“Yes, I remember that. Even back in the 40’s, Pakistan was separated from India, and Israel was formed as a nation in 1948. So what’s next? Is South America going to acquire of the Falkland Islands from Britain?”

“I haven’t heard anything about that, but all this stuff that’s been happening, oh, it’s going to be unimaginable.”

Carl, though he loved his brother, couldn't help but feel the hairs on his neck prickle at Dirk's ominous tone. Across the pub, a group of tourists erupted in laughter—oblivious to the undercurrent of tension simmering between them.

****
The sun rose at youth camp, casting long shadows across the cabins as Mary sat on the wooden steps, Rosie clutched to her chest. She approached Jordan, who was studying a weathered Bible, his fingers tracing the margins where handwritten notes crowded the text.

“Jordan, can I ask you something?”, Mary asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Sure, Mary. What’s on your mind?”, Jordan asked, glancing up from his Bible.

“My daddy said that the US acquired of Greenland from Denmark. What does that mean for us?”

Jordan stroke his chin thoughtfully. “Mary, have you studied history at school?”

“Sure I have. I’m going to be in the 8th grade later in the fall. But what that’s got to do with Greenland?”

“Well, you must’ve learned about how the US purchased Alaska from Russia in 1867, Puerto Rico from Spain in 1898 after the Spanish-American War, and Hawaii from the Kingdom of Hawaii in 1898 as well. And the US isn’t the only country that experience shift in power. Pakistan was formed in 1947 when the British Raj ended and India was partitioned, and Israel was reborn as a nation in 1948—something I believe was a fulfillment of Ezekiel 37. Most recently, the UK left the EU in 2016, and now the US has acquired Greenland.”

“But what does Greenland have to do with—with the end times?”

“Well, you know how Daniel and Revelation prophecy a ten nation confederacy. Greenland could push North America into geopolitical shifts that might form that alliance. With the Brexit, the UK will most likely be its own confederation. I imagine that Pakistan will be part of India’s confederacy, which will most likely be a separate confederacy from Asia’s. Greenland will almost certainly be part of North America’s confederacy.”

“Okay. So where would Iceland, Central America, the West Indies, and the Falkland Islands fall into?”

“Hmm, good question. Iceland might align with either Europe or the UK. Central America and the West Indies is a bit tricky—perhaps the Northern Central American countries (Belize, Guatemala, Honduras, and El Salvador) will join North America’s confederacy, while the Southern ones (Nicaragua, Costa Rica, Panama) join South America’s. The West Indies— The Bahamas, Cuba, Jamaica, Hispaniola (Haiti & Dominican Republic), and Puerto Rico could possibly join North America’s, while Barbados, Trinidad and Tobago, and the other Windward and Leeward Islands join South America’s. The Falkland Islands—perhaps South America.”

“I know I’ve asked how the Antichrist is going to control the world with ten kingdoms,” Mary said, clutching Rosie tighter as the morning chill crept through her camp sweatshirt. “But what if—what if he’s already here?”

“I do believe he is- out there somewhere. He just can’t be revealed until the church is taken.” Jordan closed his Bible softly, the worn leather cover warm from his palms. He studied Mary—her wide eyes reflecting the rising sun like fractured amber—before nodding toward the distant hills where mist curled above the treeline. “But that’s why we watch. And pray.”

Mary nodded. She admired Jordan, how he spoke with such certainty—no hesitation, no fear. But inside her, questions writhed like snakes in a sack.

“Mary, how about we join the others for breakfast?”, Jordan suggested, standing and brushing pine needles from his jeans.

Mary nodded, and together they walked toward the mess hall where the smell of pancakes and maple syrup mingled with the crisp morning air. Around them, campers laughed and jostled, their voices bright against the quiet hum of Jordan’s unanswered questions still lingering in Mary’s mind. She tightened her grip on Rosie, the bear’s soft fur comforting against her palm as she glanced at Jordan—his profile sharp against the sunrise, like a prophet carved from stone.

*****
Ashton had gone to see Ron at the Chicago Tribune offices—the building’s glass facade reflecting the bruised purple of approaching storm clouds. Ron’s desk was cluttered with half-empty coffee cups and printouts of geopolitical analyses, his fingers tapping impatiently against Greenland’s latest satellite images.

"You seeing this?" Ron muttered, shoving a grainy photo toward Ashton. "Denmark’s parliament folded faster than a house of cards. This wasn’t just a purchase—it was a surrender."

Ashton, as a young cop, had learned to read between the lines of official statements—the gaps where truth pooled like spilled ink. He traced the jagged coastline on the satellite image, the US naval ships docked near Nuuk suddenly making sense.

"They've been planning this for years," he said quietly. "This wasn't about resources. It's about positioning. So what’s next? Is the US going acquire of the Bahamas?”

Ron chuckled. "Not unless the Bahamas suddenly become a strategic military outpost. But you're missing the bigger picture—it's not just land grabs now. The stage is being set for prophecy."

Ashton knew that Ron was a devout Christian, and so was Ron’s wife Sylvia, and they have taken their young children to church every Sunday. But Ron’s growing obsession with prophetic timelines made Ashton uneasy—like watching a man balance on a ledge, convinced he could fly.

“So you believe that prophecy stuff?”, Ashton asked, leaning against Ron’s desk—the wood creaking under his weight.

“I do, Ash. I knew we didn’t grow up in a religious home and only attended church at Christmas and Easter growing up, but I’ve got saved since then.” Ron tapped the satellite image with his index finger—the paper crinkling under the pressure.

Ashton studied the deep lines around Ron’s eyes—the kind etched by late nights and unchecked fervor. Across the newsroom, a printer whirred to life, spitting out fresh headlines about Greenland’s integration into NATO’s Arctic defense strategy.

The printer's rhythmic churning filled the silence between them—ink-scented pages fluttering into the tray like prophecies materializing one line at a time. Ashton glanced at the top sheet: *USD Strengthens as Greenland Transition Begins*—the bold typeface bleeding slightly at the edges. Outside, thunder rumbled in the distance, the storm clouds now bruising the sky above Lake Michigan.

****
Carl and Donna got ready for bed in Dirk’s flat, the London skyline twinkling beyond the windows like scattered prophecies. As Donna folded her clothes neatly over the chair, Carl paused mid-motion—his fingers curled around his Bible, the leather cover cool against his palm.

“Carl, you know that I’ve been working with real estate for a while, right?”, Donna said, smoothing the sheets before sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Yes, of course I do. What about it?” Carl asked, setting his Bible on the nightstand as Donna’s fingers traced the edge of the bedsheet absently.

“Well, one of my clients just bought a flat near Temple Church,” Donna said, plucking at a loose thread on the duvet. “Middle-aged banker type—paid cash. When I asked why he wanted property near a 12th-century church, he just winked.”

“Hmm, that’s interesting,” Carl murmured, flicking off the bedside lamp. The scent of Donna’s lavender lotion mingled with the faint metallic tang of London’s nighttime air seeping through the cracked window. Shadows stretched long across the ceiling as headlights from passing cars sliced through the curtains—intermittent stripes of light painting Donna’s thoughtful expression in fleeting gold.

Outside, a siren wailed three streets over—the sound slicing through London’s hum before fading into the night. Donna squeezed his fingers, her grip warm and certain, but her gaze drifted to the corkboard’s tangled red strings—the paths between Greenland’s acquisition and Dirk’s whispered warnings about currency collapse.

***
Some days have passed, and Carl and Donna flew back to Chicago. They’ve arrived home, and Donna had received a call from one of her clients asking if she could stop by their house. She told Carl that she would be back in about an hour.

Carl was actually proud of Donna—she had built her real estate business from scratch while balancing motherhood of 6 kids, earning clients’ trust through her sharp instincts and refusal to push unnecessary deals. While most real estate realtors worked in an office, Donna had been selling houses independently for years—handling contracts over coffee shops and showing properties in her trusty minivan. He watched her leave now, her sensible flats clicking against the driveway pavement, her blazer sleeves rolled up past her elbows—ready to charm or negotiate as needed.

He sat in the living room, the TV muted but flashing images of Greenland's official handover ceremony—Danish and American flags being lowered and raised in crisp Arctic winds.

Then Carl’s phone buzzed. It was a text from Buck: *Hey Carl, I’m coming to Chicago, and I’m bringing Connor with me. I thought I show him the Chicago office before school starts in a few weeks.*

Carl stroke his chin thoughtfully as he typed out a reply—*Sounds good, Buck. Looking forward to meeting the kid.* Perhaps Carl could share about his faith with this skeptical young man, plant seeds Buck hadn’t been able to. The muted TV flickered as Greenland’s flag was folded with military precision—a slow, ceremonial collapse.

Donna returned home and asked, , “Everything alright?”

“Yes. Buck’s coming to Chicago with that intern he mentioned—Connor,” Carl said, tossing his phone onto the couch cushion beside him. “It would’ve been nice to introduce Connor to the kids but that will have to be some other time.”

Donna nodded in agreement. "Mary‘s shy, though I'm sure the boys would love meeting him—especially Samuel," she said with a grin.

“Buck said that Connor’s going to be a junior at Manhattan High School, so he’s between the age of the boys. He mentioned Connor’s got a sharp tongue—probably would fit right in.”

Chapter 21

*****
Mary sat next to Jordan by the campfire, the flames casting jagged shadows across his face as he flipped through Revelation in his worn Bible. The scent of burning pine mingled with the metallic tang of impending rain—the storm clouds overhead swallowing stars whole. She clutched Rosie tighter, the bear’s button eyes reflecting firelight like tiny portals to some unseen world.

"Mary, remember when you were a toddler, while Robert, Oliver, and Elain were in school, I baby sat you, Samuel, and Aneurin, and I’ve told you all three the story of the lost sheep?”, Jordan asked, his voice barely audible over the crackling fire.

When Mary was about 7 months old in November, Jordan had come over to babysit her, 4 year old Samuel, and 2 year old Aneurin while Carl was at work, and Donna was meeting with a couple of clients and the three older children were in school. “Now who’s ready for story time?”, Jordan had asked in his best sing-song voice, settling onto a play rug.

“Yay!”, Samuel and Aneurin both said, clapping their hands excitedly, and took a seat by Jordan.

Mary, who was then in the stages of crawling, looked at Jordan with wide, curious eyes. Jordan chuckled as he scooped her up gently, settling her on his lap alongside Samuel and Aneurin. "There was a shepherd who had 100 sheep," he began, bouncing her gently on his knee. “But one little lamb ran off— what will the shepherd do? He left the ninety-nine and went looking for the one who got lost! Just like you, little lamb—you’re God’s special treasure.”

“Mr. Jordan, did the shepherd find the lost little lamb?”, Aneurin asked, raising his hand. He was actually a good talker even for a 2 year old, and Jordan was impressed with his ability to speak clearly.

“Yes, he did, little man. He searched high and low, and would not give up until he found his lost little lamb. And when he found her, he was so happy, he called his neighbors and friends to celebrate.”

“But Mr. Jordan, how do you know that the lost little lamb is a girl?”, Samuel asked, who also talked really good even for a 4 year old.

Jordan chuckled. “I actually don’t know that for a fact, Samuel. But a girl lamb makes the story more interesting, don’t you think?” Mary giggled in his lap, her tiny fingers grasping at his sleeve as if trying to pull herself closer to the story. He bounced her gently, lowering his voice into a conspiratorial whisper. “And you know what else? The shepherd *sang* to his lost lamb when he found her—just like this—” He hummed a lullaby, swaying Mary in rhythm. The boys grinned as they watched, enthralled by the melody and the way Mary’s eyes widened with delight.

“I would not remember that, Jordan, but you’ve told me a few times”, Mary said as the firelight danced in her eyes.

“And I’m sure Jackie told you in Sunday School when you were in her class. But here’s the thing—that story isn’t just about sheep,” Jordan murmured, tapping the Bible’s thin pages. “It’s about how far God will go to find *you*. How about some s’mores?”

Mary nodded. She liked the sound of s’mores—the way the marshmallows crisped black and sticky under the firelight—but her mind snagged on Jordan’s words. The thought of God chasing her down like a lost sheep should’ve been comforting, but instead, it made her fingers tighten around Rosie’s fur. Across the fire, Samuel and Aneurin were already skewering marshmallows, their laughter sharp against the night’s silence.

****
Oliver sat at his desk in his and Remy’s dorm, looking through his new text book. The new term was starting soon, and as college seniors, they had gotten their textbooks early. Oliver flipped to the first chapter—a dry overview of European geopolitics—but his eyes kept drifting to the window where late afternoon sunlight gilded the campus rooftops.

“Can you believe this is our last year of college, man?”, Remy asked, tossing his own textbook onto his bed—the pages fluttering open to a map of post-Brexit Europe, its borders stark and uncertain.

Oliver traced the dotted line separating Greenland from Denmark with his fingertip, the ink smudging slightly under his touch. Somewhere beyond their dorm window, a student shouted across the quad—the sound sharp and sudden, like breaking glass.

“It sure went by fast”, Oliver said, his fingers lingering on Greenland's blurred coastline—the ink staining his skin like an unhealed wound.

“So what’s up with the United States acquiring Greenland?”, Remy asked, flipping open his laptop—the screen casting a blue glow across his skeptical frown. “You think it’s just about resources, or is there more to it?”

“It is said that would help secure our boarders, but there’s probably more to it,” Oliver murmured, tapping the map’s edge—his nail leaving a crescent-shaped dent in the paper.

“The United States did that with Alaska from Russia and Puerto Rico from Spain, right? So what’s next? Is the United States going to acquire of the West Indies from the UK?”

“I can’t imagine. There’s the US Virgin Islands and the British Virgin Islands, so I don’t know if the UK would give theirs up. But even then, it would not change the geopolitical shift to a 10 nation confederation that the Bible talks about.”

“You really believe that?”

“Yes, of course I do. I believe the stage is being set for the Antichrist’s ten-nation alliance—just as Daniel foretold.” Oliver pointed to Greenland on the map, his finger casting a long shadow across the North Atlantic. “This isn’t random geopolitics. It’s prophecy unfolding in real time.”

Remy flinched as Oliver's shadow stretched across the map like the outstretched fingers of some unseen hand rearranging nations. Outside, the campus clock tower chimed six times—each toll vibrating through their dorm walls with unsettling finality.

****
Buck arrived at the Global Weekly Chicago office with Connor, a blond young man with piercing blue eyes who carried himself with a restless energy that reminded Carl of Dirk at that age—all sharp angles and unspoken challenges.

“Carl, here’s the young man I was telling you about, Connor. Connor, this is Carl Burton, the editorial assistant here in the Chicago office”, Buck introduced them, his voice echoing slightly in the office’s marble-floored lobby.

“Nice to meet you”, Carl said, extending a hand to Connor—his grip firm but not crushing, the way he'd learned to shake hands from interviewing politicians who mistook dominance for professionalism.

“Hi. Cool accent. Are you English?”, Connor asked, shaking Carl’s hand while eyeing the framed Global Weekly covers lining the lobby walls.

“Welsh, actually, but close enough,” Carl said with a chuckle as he led them to his office—the soles of Connor’s sneakers squeaking against the polished floor like startled mice.

“Are these your kids?”, Connor asked, nodding towards a family photo taken last Christmas—Mary wedged between Samuel and Aneurin, Robert, Oliver, and Elain looming behind them like mismatched bookends, and Carl and Donna beaming in the center.

Carl smiled, tracing the edge of the photo frame with his thumb. "Three of them are out on their own now—Robert’s a pilot, and Oliver and Elain are both in college. But the younger three are still at home. I wish you could meet them, but they’re away at youth camp, so some other time."

Connor leaned in to study the photo closer, his brow furrowing. "Big family," he remarked, though his tone lacked judgment—just blunt observation.

“It sure is. My two daughters are different,” Carl said, tapping the frame. “Elain’s more of a tomboy—plays soccer, climbs trees—while Mary’s more of a girly-girl who enjoys dolls, tea parties, ballet, gymnastics, ice skating, and baseball.”

“Ah. Baseball?” Connor’s eyebrow arched slightly, his fingers twitching as if mentally cataloging the contradiction.

Carl chuckled at Connor’s reaction. "It’s a lot more playful than football. Here in Chicago, football is like full grown bears attacking each other while baseball is like cubs playing in the field.”

“Wow. I’m more into the New York Giants and New York Mets— is football like giants clashing and baseball like little bugs?” Connor smirked, kicking the leg of Carl’s desk lightly with his sneaker.

Carl laughed, the sound warm against the office's sterile hum. "You've got a sharp wit. I certainly see a future journalist in you.”

Connor smiled. It was the first genuine expression Carl had seen from him since they'd met—brief but bright, like sunlight flashing off a windshield. Buck cleared his throat, nudging Connor's shoulder. "Kid's got potential, but his mouth moves faster than his brain sometimes."

“It’s quite alright.”

“Buck said you were religious. You believe all that Bible prophecy stuff?”

“Well, first of all, it’s not a religion, it’s a relationship. But yes—I believe prophecy is God’s way of letting us peek at the last chapter before we’ve lived the story.”

“I believe there’s a God out there, but I don’t get why He’d care about borders and politics. Seems kinda… small for an all-powerful being.”

“You might be surprised. God cares about nations because He cares about people. And politics? That’s just people making decisions that ripple across generations. Borders shift—but His promises don’t.”

Connor's fingers drummed against the edge of Carl's desk—a staccato rhythm that matched the flicker of fluorescent lights overhead. His gaze lingered on the world map pinned behind Carl, where Greenland’s outline had been circled in red marker, the ink bleeding slightly into the Arctic expanse. Buck shifted uncomfortably in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight as he exchanged a glance with Carl—silent acknowledgment of the kid’s relentless curiosity.

***
Youth camp had a softball game that afternoon, and Samuel swung hard—the bat connecting with a sharp crack that sent the ball arcing over third base. Mary, who loved baseball, played shortstop, her braids whipping as she lunged for a grounder, her mitt swallowing the dirt-stained ball with a satisfying thump. Across the diamond, Jordan cheered from the bleachers, his voice carrying over the shouts of other campers—raw and unfiltered, the way he’d once cheered for her during t-ball when she was six. Although she wasn’t as nearly as athletic as Santiago, who sprinted past second like a jackrabbit, she still had a decent arm—something Jordan never failed to remind her of.

Santiago, already on third, kicked up dust as he bolted home—Mary’s throw slicing through the humid air, the ball’s red stitching blurring like a comet tail. Jordan’s whistle split the moment before impact, the catcher’s mitt popping like a firecracker against Santiago’s sliding sneakers. "Out!" the umpire barked, but Mary barely heard him over Samuel’s crowing laughter from first base, his grin wide enough to eclipse the afternoon sun.

After the game, Jordan treated the youth with sports drinks which he had made himself as he wasn’t fond of store bought that contained artificial ingredients. Mary took the pink lemonade flavored one—the condensation slick against her palm. Aneurin took the orange flavored one—his fingers leaving streaks in the frosty bottle—while Samuel grabbed the grape flavored one—the scent of concord grapes wafting up as he twisted the cap. The other youth took other flavors—blue raspberry, strawberry kiwi, mango, pineapple, lemon, lime, and grapefruit.

“Can you believe this is the last day of youth camp?”, Jordan asked, balancing an empty sports drink crate against his hip—the plastic creaking under his grip.

“Yeah? So?”, Aneurin said, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist—the movement quick, dismissive, but Mary caught the way his fingers twitched afterward like he’d startled himself with his own tone.

“So that means it will time to go home tomorrow, right?”, Mary asked, swirling her drink—the ice clinking against the glass like tiny, trapped bells. The sunlight caught the condensation rolling down the sides, casting watery reflections on her wrist. She glanced toward the cabins where their packed duffel bags already waited, zippers half-open like hungry mouths.

Jordan nodded. “Yes, that’s right. So tonight, I’ll treat you all to ice cream—whatever flavor you want.”

The youth were thrilled at the sound of Jordan's promise—Mary could feel the excitement ripple through them like wind through wheat. Aneurin nudged Samuel's shoulder, already debating between mint chocolate chip and rocky road, while Mary pressed her fingers against the cool glass bottle, letting the condensation soak into her skin.

Chapter 22

****
Carl and Donna had another dinner date, just the two of them—Donna wearing the pearl earrings Carl had given her last anniversary, the tiny spheres catching the candlelight as she leaned forward.

“Samuel, Aneurin, and Mary will be home from youth camp tomorrow,” Donna murmured, swirling her fork through the remnants of her salad.

“It will sure be good to have them home, especially with school starting soon”, Carl murmured, rubbing his thumb along the rim of his water glass—the crystal humming faintly under his touch.

“You know, even though Mary is now 13, it seems like she’s not going to get rid of her pink bear or her dolls anytime soon.”

“Yeah, though she did get rid of her plastic tea set and my mother got her a porcelain one with pink flowers. Our little girl’s growing up.”

Donna nodded, her fingertips brushing the stem of her water glass—the motion leaving a faint smudge on the crystal. Outside the restaurant window, streetlights flickered to life one by one, their glow catching the silver strands in her dark hair like threads of mercury.

****
Mary sat beside Jordan during the ice cream social, the bowl of strawberry ice cream with gummy butterflies and sprinkles (her favorite) balanced precariously on her knee. She watched Jordan tap his spoon against his own bowl—vanilla with caramel swirls—his fingers drumming out the same restless rhythm as when he’d explained Revelation’s timeline earlier that afternoon.

“Jordan, can I ask you something?”, Mary asked

Jordan smiled, setting his spoon down with a soft clink against the bowl. "You can ask me anything, Mary”, he said, his voice warm.

“I was wondering—when the Rapture happens,” Mary whispered, her spoon hovering over melting pink swirls, “what if I’m not ready?” The campfire’s crackle filled the silence as Jordan studied her face—the way her lower lip trembled despite her clenched jaw.

“Hey,” Jordan said softly, nudging Mary’s shoulder with his own. He set his ice cream bowl aside, the spoon clinking against the ceramic. The firelight flickered in his eyes as he turned to face her fully, his voice dropping to something just above a whisper. “You ever seen a shepherd lose a sheep and just... give up?”

“No.”

“That’s right. And neither does He.” Jordan plucked a twig from the ground, snapping it cleanly in half before tossing both pieces into the fire. The flames hissed, swallowing them whole. Mary watched the embers pulse—orange flecks spiraling upward like reverse snowfall. “So excited to be finally home tomorrow?”, he asked, steering the conversation toward safer ground.

“Yes, I am. I get to sleep on my own bed”, Mary replied, swirling her spoon through the melted pink mess in her bowl—the gummy butterflies now limp and half-dissolved.

Jordan chuckled. "Ah, your own bed—sounds like heaven after bunk beds and camp showers." His gaze flicked toward the fire, its reflection dancing in Mary’s wide eyes as she traced a pattern through the condensation on her ice cream bowl. The scent of burnt marshmallows still clung to the air, mingling with pine sap and damp earth—summer’s last breath before autumn crept in.

It was soon time for bed, and Mary curled into her bunk, clutching Rosie against her chest—the bear’s soft fur tickling her chin as she inhaled the faint scent of strawberry shampoo still clinging to its threads. Across the cabin, a flashlight flickered beneath Aneurin’s blanket, casting jagged shadows as he flipped through a comic book, the pages rustling like dry leaves.

****
Donna began preparing a welcome home meal for the three younger children—her hands moving methodically through the familiar rhythm of chopping vegetables, the knife thudding against the wooden board in time with the rain pattering against the kitchen window. She paused to adjust the simmering pot of beef stew, its rich aroma mingling with the scent of freshly baked bread—the golden loaves cooling on the wire rack, their crusts crackling softly as they settled. A faint smile touched her lips as she imagined Mary’s reaction to the strawberry shortcake waiting in the fridge, its layers stacked high with whipped cream and fresh berries.

“Jordan said he’ll bring them home by noon,” Carl murmured to Donna, watching her fold napkins into precise triangles—the starched linen corners sharper than his own hesitation about Mary’s lingering questions. Outside, the garage door groaned open, Samuel’s laughter bouncing off the concrete before the van even rolled to a stop.

The three younger children emerged from Jordan’s van. Carl caught the faintest whiff of campfire smoke still clinging to their skin as they barreled into the kitchen, their sneakers squeaking against the freshly mopped tiles.

“Welcome home”, Carl said.

“I guess youth camp did them good”, Jordan murmured to Carl, nodding toward Samuel as he wrestled Aneurin for the last dinner roll—their laughter bouncing off the kitchen walls louder than the rain drumming against the windowpanes.

“We really appreciate all that you do, Jordan,” Donna said, brushing flour-dusted hands against her apron before pulling him into a quick hug—the scent of vanilla extract and woodsmike clinging to his jacket.

“Thank you. Would you believe that Mary called me ‘Jor Jor’ yesterday, like she did when she was little?”, Jordan said, rubbing his chin—the stubble rasping against his fingertips as he glanced toward Mary.

Carl chuckled. “She was an adorable little thing, wasn’t she. And she still is, even as a newly-minted teenager,” he murmured.

“Yes, she sure is. She even played softball at camp.”

Carl and Donna thanked Jordan for everything . Then he said goodbye to the three younger children, said he’ll see them at Sunday School and Youth Group. Soon after, he went on his way.

“So how was camp, baby?”, Carl asked, reaching over to smooth a frizzy strand from Mary’s braid. She leaned into his touch briefly before pulling away.

“It was fine, Daddy”, Mary murmured, pressing her thumb against a strawberry slice until the juice bled across her plate in thin pink rivulets.

“Dad, it was great”, Samuel said, already tearing into his second bread roll, crumbs scattering across his shirtfront like golden flecks of confetti. “We did archery, and I hit the bullseye three times—Jordan said I’ve got sniper hands.” He flexed his fingers, still faintly smeared with dirt from the makeshift target range, the calluses on his palms catching the light.

“Yet Jordan preached a lot, Dad”, Aneurin said—not looking up from his plate as he stabbed at a chunk of stew meat—the fork tines screeching faintly against ceramic.

“It was a youth camp, Rin. What did you expect?”, Samuel asked, flicking a breadcrumb at Aneurin—it arced through the air like a tiny golden dart before landing in his juice glass with a faint plink. Aneurin scowled, fishing it out with his pinky finger, the pulp clinging to his nail like wet confetti.

“Alright, you two”, Carl murmured as Samuel flicked another crumb toward Aneurin—this one ricocheting off the rim of his glass and landing in Mary’s untouched stew. She blinked at the tiny disturbance rippling across the surface, her spoon hovering midair like a hesitant diver. Across the table, Aneurin smirked, his foot tapping against the table leg in a rhythm that matched the rain’s erratic patter against the windowpane.

Dinner was soon served, the steam curling In lazy spirals, carrying the scent of thyme and caramelized onions through the kitchen. Carl said grave, and Mary prodded at a chunk of potato with her spoon, watching it crumble into the rich broth. Aneurin, quieter now, traced the grain of the wooden table with his fingernail, his shoulders hunched as if bracing against an invisible draft.

Later that night, Mary was sure glad to be sleeping in her own bed—the familiar dip of the mattress beneath her shoulder blades, the faint lavender scent still clinging to her pillowcase. “Rosie, did you have fun at camp?” she whispered as she tucked the stuffed bear under her chin, the soft fur tickling her throat. The bear didn’t answer, but it was almost as if it were saying, *Yes, but I’m glad we’re home.* Mary hugged Rosie tightly as she drifted off to sleep.

****
A couple of weeks have passed, and it was back to school. Samuel, Everett, and Jared were now seniors at Prospect High School, making it their final year; Aneurin, Ronnie, and Cheryl were sophomores; Jay, Gracie, Santiago, and Mary were all in the 8th grade at Lincoln Middle School.

On the first day of school, Samuel and Aneurin boarded their bus, and by the time it reached the Prospect Gardens trailer park, the bus was full. It was obvious the trailer park was the last stop on the route. Only the first two kids of the twelve boarding from the trailer park found a seat even to share. Every morning they jostled for position to be one of the lucky first ones aboard. Samuel saw out the window two senior boys, smelling of tobacco and bad breath and never, ever, carrying schoolbooks, muscled their way to the front of the line. No one on the bus looked at the trailer park kids. They seemed to be afraid that if they made eye contact, they might have to slide over and make room for a third person in their seat. The bus driver refused to pull away from the trailer park until everyone was seated, so the two senior trailer boys—who had already found seats—rose and scowled and insisted that people make room. Some “rich kids,” which they all seemed to be who didn’t live in the trailer park begrudgingly made room. Vicki had found herself the last to find a seat. She looked in the front, where most of the black kids sat. They had to be among the first on the bus, because no one seemed to want to sit with them either—especially the trailer park kids. Samuel and Aneurin observed this, and Samuel noticed Clarice scooting over just enough to allow Vicki to squeeze in next to her. Samuel would have liked to confront the two senior boys with their tobacco breath and lack of books, but he knew better than to start anything. Aneurin just rolled his eyes and whispered, “Figures.”

Also, Vicki had learned to dress in a manner that attracted attention and was fond of leather, low-cut boots, short skirts, flashy tops, lots of jewelry, a copious amount of makeup, and a different hairstyle almost every day. Samuel, who was glad that neither Elain or Mary dressed like that, had seen many girls at school who dressed in the same way to get attention, especially Aneurin’s female friends. Samuel, as a senior, knew better than to stare at them, but he couldn’t help but glance at them from time to time. He noticed that Aneurin, sitting beside him, was doing the same, his fingers drumming against his knee in a restless rhythm.

The bus on the first day of Lincoln Middle School, although not as crowded as Prospect High's, had its own hierarchy— Santiago who was already the most popular kid in school was even more so now that he was an eighth grader. As the jock of the middle school, he had already made the football team and basketball team and was even the quarterback of the football team. Mary who was shy had a seat next to Lionel. As Lionel’s mother and Mary’s father worked together, she knew him enough to nod at him politely, but not enough to fill the silence with small talk.

Mary noticed some other 8th grade girls who were dressing in a way that drew attention and she wondered what kind of parents would let their daughters leave the house looking like that. Then she noticed Santiago showing off his muscles in a sleeveless T-shirt and flexing his biceps for anyone who would look. He was clearly proud of his athleticism, and he had reason to be. His confidence was magnetic—even Mary had to admit he carried himself differently from the other boys.

There were several new students in the 6th grade, among them being Raymie Steele and Ryan Daley. Mary had seen Raymie and his mother Irene in church on Sundays, and had recently started going to youth group on Wednesday nights. Ryan was a little shorter and thicker than Raymie, who was slender and tall and dark like his father, Rayford, whom Mary knew that Robert worked with for Pan-Con 747. Ryan was a blond and the better athlete of the two. Although Ryan probably wouldn’t be the jock that Santiago was, he was the fastest runner, the highest jumper, the best hitter and thrower and even the best basketball shot in his class. Raymie said he considered himself a klutz in sports but that he enjoyed watching Ryan and was proud to be his friend. Mary wondered why Ryan didn’t see himself as Raymie did.

The classes at the schools during the first semester were already overcrowded, with teachers struggling to maintain order amidst the chatter of students. Samuel glanced at the clock above the chalkboard, its ticking drowned out by the scrape of metal chairs and the rustle of notebook pages. Beside him, Everett leaned over to whisper something, but Samuel barely caught it—something about the way Mr. Henley’s tie always seemed to tilt slightly to the left, as if perpetually caught in an invisible breeze. Samuel smirked, but his amusement faded when he noticed Aneurin slumped at the back of the room, his hood pulled low, tapping a pen against his desk in a rhythm that felt more like a countdown than a distraction.

Even Lincoln Middle School was too crowded, the halls choked with bodies and the sharp scent of cheap locker spray. Mary kept her shoulders hunched, clutching her books like a shield against the tide of voices—somewhere behind her, Santiago's laughter cut through the din, followed by the rhythmic slap of a basketball against linoleum. She turned the corner too fast and nearly collided with Raymie Steele, his arms full of band equipment, his dark eyebrows lifting in surprise before he sidestepped with the practiced grace of someone used to avoiding collisions.

Chapter 23

****
Carl stepped into his office and met with Li Ng, the Asian woman from Channel 7. She and her husband were both born again Christians, and Carl was actually fond of her. She always carried a Bible in her purse, and attended the women’s Bible Study at Jackie’s house, and Carl knew her husband from the men’s Bible study at Pastor Billings’ house. The Ngs lived on the same street as the Steeles, in fact—just two doors down from Rayford and Irene’s place. Donna was actually the real estate agent who sold them their house, and they had become fast friends with them. Li had dark, glossy hair pulled back into a sleek ponytail, and wore a crisp blazer over her blouse, the sleeves pushed up to reveal delicate wrists lined with silver bracelets.

“So you’ve heard the latest? The British Indian Ocean Territory annexed from the UK”, Li said, sliding a manila folder across Carl’s desk—her fingernails tapping the edge with the precision of a stenographer. “So did Akrotiri and Dhekelia in Cyprus. Imagine that.”

Carl looked through the folder—its contents crisp against his fingers—as Li tapped her silver bracelets against the armrest in a restless rhythm. Outside, the Channel 7 news van idled at the curb, its diesel engine humming like an impatient spectator.

“When did this happened?”, Carl asked, flipping through the documents—the pages crisp under his fingers, their edges catching the overhead light in sharp white lines.

“Yesterday. You probably know what I’m think this means, right? I mean, the US acquired of Greenland, the Falklands, the Pitcairn Islands, the British Virgin Islands, Bermuda, and now the British Indian Territory, and Akrotiri and Dhekelia in Cyprus all annexed from Great Britain. This could be the beginning of the One World Government.”

“You must mean the ten nation coalition forming. Well, hopefully the Rapture comes first.”

“That’s what I’m hoping, too.“

“Yeah. Hey, are you and your husband able to come over for dinner?”

Li’s bracelets chimed softly as she adjusted her blazer cuff, her gaze flicking to the news van outside where her cameraman leaned against the bumper scrolling through his phone. "Dinner sounds perfect. My husband and I have been blessed with the home Donna helped us find—it’s time we repaid that hospitality." Her fingers lingered on the edge of Carl’s desk, tracing a faint scratch in the wood grain.

“Great. She’s making her famous shepherd’s pie so bring your appetites,” Carl said, watching Li’s bracelets catch the afternoon sunlight as she stood—the motion sending a faint jasmine scent wafting across the desk. Through the window, the cameraman stubbed out his cigarette against the van’s bumper, the ember flaring briefly before dissolving into the pavement.

****
The schools had challenges, but recess was always a relief—until Mary spotted Santiago and his friends crowding around Ryan near the basketball court. Ryan dribbled with quick precision, his blond hair sticking to his forehead with sweat, but Santiago’s grin didn’t reach his eyes when he clapped Ryan on the shoulder a little too hard. Mary hesitated at the edge of the blacktop, her sneakers scuffing the pavement as Ryan’s laugh echoed—forced, she thought—before Santiago snatched the ball mid-dribble and spun it on his finger.

“Hey Mary”, Gracie said, appearing beside her with a juice box clutched in one hand—her braids swaying as she tilted her head toward the basketball court. “You watching Ryan?”

“Yeah. Maybe Raymie should invite him to youth group on Wednesdays”, Mary murmured, watching Ryan’s shoulders tense as Santiago leaned in to murmur something—his knuckles whitening around the basketball’s pebbled surface.

Raymie overheard Mary and said, “I actually did. I told him what youth pastor Jordan‘s been teaching—he just laughed and said he’s not into ‘sky daddy stuff.’” He shrugged, popping the lid off his juice box with a hollow plastic click. Across the court, Santiago dribbled between his legs—too fast, too aggressive—then passed the ball straight into Ryan’s chest hard enough to make him stumble backward.

*****
Robert had gone to the pan-con office to get his schedule for the next flight when he overheard Rayford talking to Hattie by the coffee machine. Hattie laughed too loudly at something Rayford said, her fingers brushing his sleeve as she reached for a stirrer.

“Robert, good timing,” Rayford said, stepping back from the coffee machine—just enough to break Hattie’s lingering proximity—his knuckles whitening around his mug handle. Hattie’s smile faltered for half a second before she recovered, tossing her hair over one shoulder with practiced ease. The scent of her perfume—something cloyingly sweet, like synthetic berries—clung to the air between them.

“Is there a flight scheduled for today?” Robert asked, watching Hattie’s reflection in the coffee machine’s chrome surface—her fingers lingering near Rayford’s elbow again.

“No, but you, Chris, and I are scheduled to fly to London real soon”, Rayford said, rubbing the back of his neck—his wedding band catching the fluorescent light as he glanced at Hattie’s reflection in the coffee machine’s scratched surface.

“London? My uncle lives there.”

“You don’t say.”

“Ray, you know I’ve been piloting with you and Chris since I was 18. Did I ever I mentioned that I’m actually half-Welsh?”

“Yes, you have a few times. Every time we fly over Cardiff,” Rayford said, his thumb absently brushing the rim of his coffee cup where a chip in the ceramic caught the light.

“Well, I’ll tell my dad that I’m flying to London to see Uncle Dirk—he’ll love that,” Robert said, tapping his flight schedule against his palm with a dry chuckle.

Rayford nodded, and patted Robert on the back. "You’re a good kid—I mean, man," he corrected himself with a chuckle, glancing at Hattie, who had begun scrolling through her phone with exaggerated disinterest.

****
The three younger kids came home from school and went to do their homework. Donna was preparing dinner—her famous shepherd’s pie—when Mary noticed Samuel staring blankly at his laptop screen, his fingers frozen above the keyboard.

“Your father has invited a couple of guests over for dinner tonight,” Donna said, stirring the shepherd’s pie filling with one hand while adjusting the oven temperature with the other.

“Really? Who is it, Mom?”, Aneurin asked without looking up from his phone, his thumbs tapping the screen rhythmically—too fast, like Morse code for irritation.

“It’s that Asian couple who I sold their house to,” Donna said, her wooden spoon scraping against the pot’s rim as Aneurin’s thumbs finally stilled on his phone screen. “Perhaps you’ve heard of Li Ng from Channel 7?”

“Oh, yes. They’re Christians, aren’t there?”, Samuel finally spoke, his voice low and distant—like he was still mentally parsing something else entirely.

“Yes, that’s right. And don’t roll your eyes, Aneurin,” Donna said, shooting him a look as she wiped her hands on her apron—the fabric streaked with flour and grease. Aneurin exhaled through his nose, thumbing his phone screen dark before tossing it onto the couch beside him where it landed with a dull thud. Samuel’s laptop hummed faintly, the glow casting sharp shadows under his eyes as he blinked at the unfinished essay.

Carl soon came home from work, shrugging off his coat and loosening his tie—his movements deliberate and quiet, like a man trying not to disturb the fragile equilibrium of the household. He paused in the doorway, watching Donna stir the shepherd's pie filling with quick, practiced strokes while Mary lingered near the fridge, her fingers tracing the condensation on a pitcher of lemonade.

Donna answered the door with flour still dusting her forearms, her smile widening as Li Ng stepped inside.

“Donna, the lady who sold us our home—she’s still as hospitable as the day we signed the papers,” Li said, stepping inside and gave Donna a hug.

“You must be Donna’s husband from the Global Weekly. Carl, isn’t it?”, Li’s husband Hàoyú asked, shaking Carl’s hand with a grip that lingered just a second too long.

“Yes, that’s right”, Carl said, shaking Hàoyú’s hand with a firm grip—his own fingers still faintly chilled from the Chicago wind tunneling between office buildings.

“Love the accent. You’re English, right?”

“Welsh, though England and Wales are actually close neighbors,” Carl corrected lightly, noticing Hàoyú’s fingers lingering near his cufflinks.

Carl and Donna introduced the Ngs to Samuel, Aneurin, and Mary. “We also have three other children- Robert, Oliver, and Elain, but they’re out on their own. Robert works for Pan-Con- he’s a second officer pilot navigator- and Oliver and Elain are both in college”, Carl said, gesturing toward the family photos on the mantle.

“Hey, I also work for Pan-Con”, Hàoyú said, glancing at the family photos—his fingers hovering near Robert’s uniformed likeness before tapping it lightly, as if testing its solidity. “That pilot kid is your eldest? Small world.”

“Yeah, except he’s actually not really a kid. He’s 23.”

“Ah. Yes, I have seen him in the office and at O’Hare. He wears Pan-Con navy well,” Hàoyú said, rubbing his thumb over the photo’s edge—his nail catching a fleck of dust lodged in the frame’s groove.

“Li, do you happen to know anything about a prayer closet known as a war room?”, Donna asked abruptly, ladling shepherd’s pie onto plates—the steam curling upward like silent prayers.

“Yes, I do. We even set one up after we’ve moved into the house you sold us,” Li said, accepting the plate from Donna—her bracelets whispering against the porcelain rim.

“Speaking of prayer, how about we give thanks before we eat?” Carl suggested, gesturing for everyone to join hands around the table. Aneurin hesitated, his fingers twitching near his phone before reluctantly extending his arm—his palm cool and stiff against Samuel’s knuckles. Hàoyú’s grip was warm, his wedding band pressing into Carl’s skin like a brand.

Carl said grace, and as soon as they said Amen, they began to eat the shepherd's pie—the steam curling upward from their forks in delicate tendrils.

“So Donna, what gave the idea for a prayer closet?”, Li asked, scraping the last forkful of shepherd’s pie—the crispy potato crust yielding with a satisfying crunch.

“You know my friend Jackie, right? She hosts a Woman’s Bible Study at her house,” Donna said, pushing her fork through the remnants of shepherd’s pie crust—the tines scraping against the ceramic plate. A faint flush crept up her neck as she glanced at Carl, who chewed slowly, his gaze fixed on Li’s bracelets as they caught the light with each small movement. “She turned her linen closet into this—this war room. Covered the walls in Scripture verses, prayer lists, even maps with pins marking unreached people groups.” Her voice dipped, almost reverent. “She says it’s where she does battle.”

“That’s a good place. Hàoyú and I do our battles in ours, too. Ours has the Scripture of Ephesians 6:18 written on the wall.”

“I have interviewed military people for the Global Weekly, and I’m sure you have, too, Li, on your news station. A soldier never acts on his or her own. They‘re in contact with their commander,” Carl said, gesturing vaguely toward the ceiling. “Prayer is our direct line to Headquarters.”

“Rightfully so. This is a spiritual warfare we are in the midst of, Carl.”

“I have something you both can prayer about”, Samuel interjected suddenly. “At my and Aneurin’s school, Prospect High School, a lot of the kids from the Prospect Gardens trailer park, especially the freshman girl Vicki’s friends, have been calling the Negro or African-American students horrible names.”

“Really? Why would they do that?” Li asked, setting her fork down with deliberate care.

“I’m not sure. I suspected that since there aren’t any African-Americans, Asians, Hispanics, Latinos, or any other ethnics who live at the trailer park as it’s all Caucasian, that they haven’t been exposed to diversity. Or maybe the manager only rents to whites—I don’t know.”

“The manager only rents to Caucasians? That’s discrimination! We’ll certainly be praying about this,” Hàoyú said, his fingers tightening around his water glass.

“When Carl and I were growing up in Wales and North Dakota respectfully, there was some prejudice against the African-Americans and African-British—though it seems to have gotten worse since the political climate shifted,” Donna said quietly.

“I learned about prejudice against ethnics in history class at my school Lincoln Middle School, but I have no idea people are still like that,” Mary said.

“They’re out there, Mary. You know my friend Jared Smith, right? We’ve been so since kindergarten. He’s an African- American but I never think of him as anything other than my friend,” Samuel said.

“Yes, his brother Jay is in my class. He’s the one who brought up Ezekiel’s prophecies when we were assigned that Russia essay last year.”

“How many ethnics are in your class, Mary?”, Li asked, her chopsticks poised over her plate—her wrist angled just enough to catch the light on her jade bracelet.

“There are some Negroes, and some Hispanics and Latinos. Jay Smith and Lionel Washington are Negroes, and Santiago Perez is Hispanic and Maria Gutierrez is Latino. But most kids ignore them unless they’re talking about basketball or chores.”

“Santiago Perez? Isn’t that the Hispanic jock from youth group?”, Aneurin asked.

“Yeah. He’s Puerto Rican and Maria’s Brazilian. Though I don’t know that much difference between Hispanic and Latino.” Mary pressed her fork into the shepherd’s pie crust, watching the steam rise in thin curls.

“Honey, we have some Hispanics and Latinos who work at the Global Weekly Chicago office, and though they are interchangeable terms, there is a difference,” Carl said, “Hispanic refers to Spanish-speaking countries, while Latino includes Brazil.”

“Does Maria speak Portuguese, then?” Hàoyú asked.

“Fluently, and Santiago’s fluent in Spanish.”

“Welsh is an English language, but we have our own dialect,” Carl said, pressing his thumb against the rim of his water glass—leaving a smudge that caught the lamplight. “In Wales, if you say ‘flat’, people assume you mean an apartment, not a flat tired.”

“You mean like Uncle Dirk’s flat in London, right?”, Samuel said, glancing at Carl.

”Yes, Sam. Just like Uncle Dirk’s flat.”

As soon as dinner was over, they gathered around in the living room. Donna showed Li her prayer closet—a converted linen nook with index cards pinned to the walls, each scrawled with names like *Robert’s cynicism*, *Aneurin’s rebellion*, and *Mary’s insecurity* in Donna’s looping cursive.

“I’ve noticed that Mary’s pretty quiet. She okay?” Li murmured to Donna, glancing toward the living room where Mary sat stiffly on the sofa.

“Yeah, she’s always been quiet. Though when Elain went off to college, she’s gotten…quieter,” Donna murmured back, pressing a thumb against the corner of a prayer card.

“Ah. Carl has mentioned Mary holds on to a pink bear as her source of security.”

“Rosie. She’s had that since she was 3, and even now at 13, she still sleeps with it.”

Li nodded, her fingers brushing the index cards—thumb lingering over *Mary’s insecurity* before tracing the frayed edge where Donna had scribbled *Psalm 56:3* beneath it. The cedar scent deepened as she leaned closer, her bracelets whispering against each other like distant prayers. "You ever think some of these things aren’t just hers to carry?" she murmured, glancing toward the living room where Mary sat twisting a loose thread from the sofa cushion around her finger.

“I haven’t thought about that. Maybe you’re right,” Donna whispered, her fingers brushing the frayed edge of Mary’s prayer card.

The Ngs thanked the Burtons for everything and said goodbye—Li hugging Donna tightly, her bracelets pressing cold against Donna’s shoulder blades—while Hàoyú shook Carl’s hand. Samuel helped clear the dishes, stacking plates with exaggerated care—his sleeves rolled up to reveal fresh ink smudges from an unfinished school essay—as Aneurin vanished upstairs without a word, his phone screen casting an eerie blue glow on the stairwell walls. Mary lingered by the front window, her pink bear tucked under one arm, watching the Ng’s taillights disappear down the street.

Chapter 24

*****
Elain had gone back to her and Addi’s dorm after an exhausting day of classes. Elain heard her phone rang and it was the Burton landline from her childhood home. Elain answered it, and it was Donna.

“Hi Mom”, Elain said, pressing the phone closer as Donna’s voice crackled through—the familiar kitchen sounds muffled in the background, the clink of dishes and Carl’s low hum as he tuned the radio to some late-night program.

“Hey, honey. How are you?”, Donna’s voice crackled through the line, underscored by the distant clatter of dishes—Carl’s murmured commentary on the evening news barely audible beneath it.

“I’m doing good. I sure miss you and dad.”

“We miss you, too. I thought I’d call before bed—you know how your father gets when I interrupt his evening tea ritual,” Donna said, the soft clink of a teaspoon against ceramic punctuating her words. Elain smiled at the image—Carl hunched over his steaming mug, fingers curled around it like a lifeline, his brow furrowed at some editorial draft.

“Yeah, I do. Is he there?”

“Yes. I’ll put you on speaker—hold on,” Donna said. The line rustled as the phone shifted, followed by Carl’s quiet exhale, the scrape of his chair against the kitchen tile as he leaned closer. “Elain?” His voice was deeper over the phone, roughened by the late hour and the lingering taste of Earl Grey.

“Hey Dad. What’s the tea verdict tonight?” Elain asked, stretching out on her dorm bed—the springs creaking faintly under her weight as she kicked off her shoes. Through the phone, she heard Carl’s quiet chuckle, the familiar rustle of his newspaper being set aside, followed by the soft clink of his teaspoon against the mug’s rim.

“Earl Grey, honey. You remember having tea parties with Mary and those plastic teacups?” Carl’s voice warmed slightly, muffled as if he’d taken a sip mid-sentence—the ceramic clink echoing faintly through the speaker. Elain could picture him leaning against the kitchen counter, his free hand absently smoothing the newspaper’s creased edge, the way he always did when nostalgia caught him off guard.

“Yes, of course I do. She’s more of a girly girl than I am, but those were good times. She got rid of the plastic tea set, didn’t she?”, Elain said, tugging at a loose thread on her pillowcase.

“Yes, she did. Grandma Burton actually got her a pink porcelain tea set for her 13th birthday—the kind with tiny roses painted on the saucers.”

“Why, yes, of course. Grandma Burton sure does have a knack for picking things out.”

Carl chuckled. “She sure does. But enough about tea sets—how’s that archaeology paper coming along?” He shifted the phone slightly, the muffled sound of Donna rinsing dishes in the background like static beneath his words. Elain hesitated, picturing her father’s fingers drumming against the countertop—his tell when he sensed evasion.

“I’m learning a lot,” Elain said, rolling onto her side—the dorm mattress squeaking beneath her—as she eyed the half-finished draft glowing on her laptop screen. A cold draft seeped through the window frame, carrying the faint scent of rain-soaked pavement from the quad below. “Professor Singh says my thesis on pre-Babylonian temple artifacts needs sharper focus, though.”

“I’m sure you’ll nail it,” Carl said, the sound of his mug scraping against the countertop punctuating his words. Through the phone, Elain heard the faint rustle of Donna drying her hands on a dish towel—the fabric whispering against her skin like an afterthought.

“Hon, do you ever watch the Channel 7 news in your dorm?”, Donna asked.

“Of course I do. Why?”, Elain asked, sitting up—the springs groaning under her sudden movement.

“Well, you remember that Asian couple I sold their house to? They came over for dinner today.”

“You mean Li and Hàoyú? Wow!”

“Yes, Hon. So are you coming home on the weekend?”, Donna asked, pressing the phone closer—the line buzzing with static for a second before clearing—her fingers tapping absently against the countertop. Elain heard the distant scrape of Carl’s chair as he shifted his weight, his silence deliberate, waiting.

“Friday, but I had to get back to college on Saturday. So I could stay for only 1 night. I thought I do a slumber party with Mary if she wants,” Elain said, pressing the phone against her shoulder as she reached for her laptop—the screen casting a blue glow on her chipped nail polish.

“I’m sure she’d like that. The boys- Samuel and Aneurin- have been a bit much lately,” Donna said, her voice lowering as the faucet squeaked shut—water dripping into the sink like a metronome counting down the seconds before Carl inevitably interjected.

“Well, you know how boys can be. Especially at their age.” Elain tugged the phone cord—its coiled resistance pulling taut—as she glanced at the polaroid of Samuel and Aneurin taped to her dorm wall, their arms slung over each other’s shoulders, Samuel’s grin wide enough to crease the corners of his eyes.

“Yeah, teenagers. Explosions in slow motion. Well, we better get off the phone— we just wanted to hear your voice,” Donna said, her thumb brushing the receiver of the phone.

“Thank you, Mom and Dad. Give Samuel, Aneurin, and Mary each a hug for me,” Elain said, pressing her palm against the cool dorm window—the glass fogging slightly under her breath as she traced the outline of a raindrop sliding down the pane.

“Alright, honey. We love you,” Carl said, his voice catching slightly—the way it always did when emotions snuck past his editorial precision. The line clicked softly as Donna hung up, leaving Elain staring at her phone screen


****
Mary changed into her pink pajamas, brushed her teeth, and combed her hair—the bristles catching on a stubborn tangle that made her wince—before climbing into bed with Rosie tucked under her arm. Carl came in to say goodnight, his shadow stretching across the patchwork quilt as he lingered in the doorway, one hand rubbing his beard thoughtfully. "Did you like Li and Hàoyú?" he asked, voice low—the hallway light casting his face half in shadow, half in warm gold.

“Yeah. They seemed nice”, Mary said, pressing Rosie against her nose.

Carl approached and tucked the quilt tighter around Mary’s shoulders—the fabric still warm from the dryer, smelling faintly of lavender detergent. He found her pink blanket with adorable little lambs on it—her favorite since she was a baby—and draped it over her legs, smoothing out the wrinkles with his calloused hands. “Your big sister’s coming home Friday,” he said quietly.

“Elain is coming home Friday?”

“Yes, your mom called her with our landline. She said she’d stay Friday night—maybe do a slumber party with you.”

“A slumber party? What about Oliver?”

“I just got a text from him. He said he misses us, and he’ll be coming home Friday, too.”

“And Robert?”

“I haven’t talked to him, but as you know, he flies a lot. But he might surprise us.”

“The house sure got quiet.”

“Yeah, and Samuel will be off to college before you know it. Well, you better get to sleep.”

“Alright daddy.”

“Goodnight, princess.” Carl kissed Mary’s forehead—his beard scraping softly against her skin—and flicked off the lamp, plunging the room into a darkness broken only by the faint glow of her nightlight. Mary curled tighter around Rosie, her fingers tracing the bear’s worn stitching—the same rhythmic motion she’d used since toddlerhood—as Carl’s footsteps retreated down the hall, each creak of the floorboards marking his distance.

**
Robert sat with Rayford and Chris at lunch, discussing their upcoming flight to London in the next week. The 747s were the big planes—ones he was still getting used to—and Rayford’s advice about turbulence over the Atlantic came between bites of a ham sandwich. Chris joked about Robert’s tendency to grip the armrests too tight, but the joke didn’t land—Robert’s fingers twitched slightly at the mention, his coffee cup trembling when he lifted it.

“So what time do we depart?”, Robert asked, stirring his coffee.

“Well, according to our flight schedule this next week, we land at Heathrow at 6am in the morning, so we depart Chicago in the evening,” Rayford said.

“Well, if it’s alright with you both, I think I might drive to my childhood home in Mount Prospect and surprise my parents on Friday.”

“Oh, yes. Absolutely.”

Robert’s fingers drummed against the cafeteria table—a staccato rhythm that matched the flickering fluorescent light above them.

*****
Friday came, and Oliver and Elain both arrived at the Burton home—Oliver lugging a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, its straps frayed from years of use, while Elain balanced a cardboard box of dorm snacks in one arm—the scent of stale popcorn and instant ramen packets leaking through the seams.

“Mom, Dad”, Oliver said, stepping inside—the screen door slamming shut behind him—as he kicked off his snow-crusted boots by the mat.

“Oliver, Elain”, Carl said, stepping forward—his slippers shuffling against the hardwood—as he pulled Oliver into a one-armed hug, the duffel bag knocking awkwardly against his hip. Behind him, Donna wiped flour-dusted hands on her apron, her face softening as Elain set the box down with a rustle—the sound of shifting ramen packets like distant rainfall.

“Elain, I’ve been making cinnamon rolls”, Donna said, “I thought you and Mary would like them for your sleepover tonight.” The air smelled warm with sugar and yeast—Donna’s apron still dusted with flour as she gestured toward the kitchen counter, where a tray of golden-brown rolls sat cooling, their frosting still pooling in molten swirls.

“Thank you, Mom. Where is Mary?”, Elain asked, brushing flour from her sleeve.

“Oh, Samuel, Aneurin, and Mary are each doing their homework, but they should be done soon”, Carl said, nodding toward the hall.

“I’ve also ordered Chicago style Pizza for dinner,” Donna said, her fingers tapping the flour-dusted order slip on the counter.

As soon as the younger three were done with each of their homework, they emerged from their rooms and came up the hall—Samuel first, stretching his arms above his head with a yawn that cracked his jaw, followed by Aneurin, scrolling through his phone with his thumb flicking upward in quick, restless strokes. Mary came last, her socked feet whispering against the hardwood as she clutched Rosie to her chest—her eyes widening at the sight of Elain, then darting toward the kitchen where the scent of cinnamon rolls lingered like a promise.

“Elain!” Mary’s voice cracked mid-syllable, the way it sometimes did now.

“Hey, Mary. Ready for that slumber party I promised you?”, Elain said, grinning.

“Yes. I even had a tea party set up in our room. The tea still has to be made.”

Elain smiled as she pulled Mary into a hug. “Look who else came,” she murmured, nodding toward Oliver.

“Hey, little Sis”, Oliver said, ruffling Mary’s already tangled hair.

“Hey, Oliver”, Mary said shyly.

“Oh, you still have that adorable pink bear that Jordan gave to you for Christmas when you three. How cute!”

Mary smiled and hugged Rosie. She went to put her away in her bedroom. Carl gathered them all in the living room as Donna brought in the boxes of deep-dish pizza, their cardboard lids damp with condensation. Carl said grace—his voice low and steady—before digging in. The smell of oregano and melted cheese filled the room, mingling with the faint scent of cinnamon rolls still cooling on the kitchen counter.

“We want to hear all about college life. How’s it going for you both?”, Carl asked Oliver and Elain.

“Well, senior year at Chicago State University is pretty intense as you can imagine”, Oliver said, wiping pizza grease from his fingers onto a napkin. “Graduation will be in May. I’ve been thinking about applying to grad school—maybe Northwestern?—but I’m still weighing my options.”

“As for sophomore year, it’s more intense than last year during my freshman year”, Elain said, dragging a slice of pizza through a pool of grease on her plate.

“Well, I am proud of two of my babies in college,” Donna said, balancing a slice on her fingertips.

Then the doorbell rang. Carl got up—his napkin fluttering to the floor. He opened the door, and there stood Robert—his jacket damp with melted snowflakes.

“Robert, what a surprise”, Carl said, blinking against the gust of frigid air that rushed past Robert’s shoulders as he stepped inside, his boots leaving damp prints on the mat.

“Hey, Dad”, Robert said, shaking snowflakes from his jacket. His breath still carried the metallic tang of altitude, his knuckles chapped from cockpit dryness.

Carl led Robert to the living room and said, “Look who decided to surprise us”, he said, gesturing toward Robert.

“Robert! How’d you swing a Friday off?” Oliver asked.

“Well, I actually didn’t. I have a flight to London this coming next week, so I thought I surprise you guys before I leave”, Robert said.

“Well, we’re glad you did. Mary’s figure skating competition is tomorrow”, Donna said.

“It’s in Chicago, right?”

“Yes. You’ll be there, won’t you?”, Mary asked, taking a bite of pizza.

“I wouldn’t miss it, little sis.”

“So have you learned anything new at Youth Group?”, Oliver asked the three younger children.

“Pastor Jordan’s been doing end time prophecies- both at Youth Group on Wednesday nights and Sunday School on Sunday morning”, Samuel said with a grin.

“Pastor Billings has been doing the same during Sunday service”, Carl said, folding his pizza crust into a tight triangle.

“Ah. Good old Jordan. Who’d ever thought he go from babysitting to a youth pastor?”, Oliver mused. “Remember how Mary used to call him ‘Jor Jor’ when she was little?”

“She was a toddler then. She probably couldn’t say ‘Jordan’ properly,” Robert chuckled.

Carl chuckled. "Alright, you two. Let's not embarrass Mary too much—she's already got enough to stress about with tomorrow's competition."

The family finished their pizza, and Donna went to the kitchen and turned the kettle on for tea—the metallic click of the switch louder than usual in the lull of conversation. Elain and Mary went to the girls’ room and the boys went to the boys‘ room to play video games. Mary showed Elain the tea party set-up at a table their maternal grandfather had built for her this last Christmas. Elain noticed a desk and pink MacBook neo—the latest model—along with textbooks neatly stacked. She traced a finger along the spine of Mary’s science book before glancing at the framed photo of Mary skating at Nationals last year, her sequined dress catching the flash like scattered stars.

“Wow Mary! You’ve got your own workstation now?” Elain said, tapping the MacBook’s lid.

“Daddy brought me that from a guy who’s a tech expert,” Mary said, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

Elain nodded, and Donna came in with the tea kettle—the steam curling from its spout like a ghostly question mark. Elain lifted the lid of Mary’s porcelain teapot and Donna poured—the water hitting the leaves with a soft hiss, releasing the scent of chamomile.

“Is that chamomile tea, Mom?”, Elain asked, sniffing the steam curling from Mary’s teapot.

“It is. I’ll be back with the cinnamon rolls”, Donna said, glancing at Mary’s tea set—the delicate floral pattern almost glowing under the lamplight—before slipping out. Mary lifted the teapot with both hands, her fingers trembling slightly as she poured chamomile into Elain’s cup—the liquid gold catching the light like liquid amber.

“Remember having a tea party with Jordan back when he babysat, Mary? It was his favorite thing to do with you,” Elain said, stirring her tea.

Mary smiled at the memory, her fingers tracing the scalloped edge of her teacup—the porcelain warm against her skin. Donna returned balancing two plates, each holding a cinnamon roll glistening with icing that dripped onto the floral saucer beneath.

“Now your dad and I will be in the living room watching TV—you two enjoy your tea party,” Donna said, pausing at the door before closing it with a soft click. Mary lifted her cup with both hands, blowing across the surface. Elain tore a piece of cinnamon roll, the icing stretching into sticky threads as she leaned forward.

The tea party and slumber party was a night filled with laughter, storytelling, and shared memories. Elain brushed Mary’s hair while recounting her dorm escapades, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper when describing the RA’s midnight patrols. Mary listened, clutching Rosie tighter whenever Elain’s stories veered toward college parties.

“My roommate, a Pakistani-Jew named Addi Eliraz, is a sweetheart. She loves hearing about my childhood,” Elain said, giving Mary two braids before tying them off with pink ribbons.

“Eliraz? Doesn’t her dad own the Eliraz Industry? Daddy have met him a few times”, Mary said.

“Yes, that’s it. She and I went to school together since kindergarten. I guess we had no idea we’d end up roommates in college. She often talks about her dad’s security systems—how he’d test them at home when she was little. Her oldest brother Ivan took over the company after her dad retired this last summer.”

Elain looked at the time on her purple iPhone, and saw it was getting late. The girls went to brush their teeth and Mary, holding Rosie, climbed into her bed. Elain climbed into her bed with purple pajamas—the fabric still stiff from the packaging—as Mary clicked off the bedside lamp, plunging the room into a darkness broken only by the faint glow of her nightlight.

Chapter 25

****
Josiah woke up in his apartment and saw a text from Ivan, reminding him of his and Sienna’s little girl’s ballet recital later that evening. The sunlight streamed through his blinds in sharp diagonal lines—dust motes swirling in the beams like tiny galaxies—as he stretched, his shoulders popping audibly. He texted back a thumbs-up emoji. His niece had been practicing her pliés for months, whispering the counts under her breath whenever he visited. His two nephews had been practicing their basketball layups, and Ivan had mentioned last week that Allie’s first recital would be at five-thirty sharp—no late arrivals permitted.

Josiah glanced at the time. He had time to work and get off in time for Allie recital. He showered quickly—the water pressure uneven, alternating between scalding and lukewarm—and dressed in his usual black slacks and navy-blue button-down, the fabric still crisp from the dry cleaner. His phone buzzed again—another text from Ivan—this time a photo of Allie in her ballet costume, her dark curls pinned back with a glittering headband, her smile tentative but proud. Josiah typed, *She’s radiant*, then hesitated before adding, *Tell her Uncle Jo won’t be late.*

Josiah arrived at the hospital parking garage—his tires crunching over grit left by the last snowplow—and took the stairs two at a time, the echo of his footsteps bouncing off concrete walls like gunshots. The fifth-floor ICU hummed with beeps and hushed voices, the antiseptic air clinging to his clothes as he flashed his badge at the nurse’s station.

He greeted one of the doctors and the head nurse, then noticed a young woman who seemed to be an intern. She had been standing near the nurse's station, tapping her foot impatiently. Josiah leaned against the counter—his fingers drumming against the laminate surface—as he glanced at the patient board, scanning for familiar names.

“You’re new here, aren’t you?”, Josiah asked the intern—his voice low enough that the hum of the EKG monitors nearly swallowed it.

“Yes, I’m a nursing student and interning here”, the woman replied, tucking a loose strand of dark brown hair behind her ear—her fingers trembling slightly under Josiah’s scrutiny.

“Ah. I don’t believe I have ever seen you here before.”

“Are you a doctor here?”

“No, I’m one of the nurses here. You’ve already met my superior, the head nurse,” Josiah said, nodding toward the older woman reviewing charts—her glasses perched low on her nose as she scribbled notes with a pen that squeaked against the paper.

“Yes, I did, and even the head doctor and the head surgeon here”, the intern replied. “So are you Indian?”

Josiah chuckled. “I get that a lot. But no, I’m Pakistani Jew—my family’s been in Chicago for three generations.”

He caught the way her eyes flicked to his name tag—*Josiah Eliraz*—her lips parting slightly. “Ah, Eliraz. Like the security systems?” The intern’s fingers tightened around her clipboard.

“Yeah, my father’s company. Though I prefer saving lives over guarding buildings. My oldest brother took over the business—he’s better suited for boardrooms than I ever was.”

“My fiancé works for that company,” the intern said, glancing at her engagement ring—the diamond catching the fluorescent light in tiny, sharp winks.

“Oh, so you’re engaged! He must be proud to have a woman who will be helping others.”

The intern smiled—a quick, nervous thing—and adjusted her stethoscope, the metal cool against her collarbone. "Yeah, he says it keeps him busy. So are you seeing anyone?”

“No. I had a few girlfriends but they didn’t last very long. Seems ICU shifts don’t leave much room for dating.”

Josiah heard his pager buzz—a muffled chirp against his hip—and glanced at the number, recognizing the ICU extension. He excused himself with a quick nod, already striding toward Room 512 where the cardiac monitor’s erratic beeps had escalated into a shrill alarm. The intern hesitated before following, her rubber-soled shoes squeaking against the linoleum as she clutched her clipboard like a shield. Inside, Dr. Alvarez was already adjusting the IV drip, his brow furrowed under the unforgiving fluorescence that made the patient’s pallor look almost gray. Josiah moved on instinct, his hands steady as he checked the vitals—the patient’s pulse fluttering like a trapped bird beneath his fingertips.

****
Breakfast at the Burton home smelled of burnt toast and orange juice—the latter freshly squeezed, pulpy bits clinging to the sides of the glass pitcher Carl had pulled from the fridge. Mary pushed scrambled eggs around her plate, her fork scraping against ceramic in tiny, nervous circles. The morning light caught the sequins of her skating dress draped over the chairback, turning them into scattered prisms on the kitchen wall.

“So did you girls have a fun slumber party?”, Donna asked Elain and Mary—the question punctuated by the hiss of the toaster ejecting two charred slices.

“Yes we sure did”, Elain said, plucking a stray sequin from the tablecloth—the tiny disc catching the light before disappearing into her palm.

“I remember having a slumber party with my sister, your aunt Krista, in Minot. I used to braid her hair just like you do with Mary,” Donna said.

“How is Aunt Krista?”, Mary asked, smiling at the mention of her aunt—her fingers stilling around her fork as she glanced at Donna.

“She actually texted me this morning. She says that she loves you girls and the boys very much.”

Aunt Krista was a fun loving aunt from Donna’s side, much like Dirk was a fun loving uncle from Carl’s side. Each lived faraway—Krista in Minot, North Dakota, Dirk in London—but the Burton kids were always delighted to see them.

“Aunt Krista- she always had something special for us, didn’t she?”, Samuel said, leaning against the kitchen doorway—his grin widening as he grabbed a piece of burnt toast, crunching into it with exaggerated relish.

“She sewed a lot of my doll dresses”, Mary said, tapping her fork against the plate—the tiny clinks like punctuation marks between her words. A bead of syrup slid down the pitcher’s side, catching the sunlight before vanishing into the tablecloth’s embroidery.

“She sure did, so did both your grandmas. Remember the doll-sized skating outfit Grandma Burton made for one of your dolls?” Donna said, stirring her coffee—the spoon clinking softly against the porcelain like a metronome counting down the morning.

Mary grinned at the mention of her doll's skating outfit, her fingers instinctively tracing the lace trim on her own dress draped beside her. She was the only girl in the family who played with dolls—Elain had preferred soccer balls, track spikes, and now college textbooks.

“Hey, since you’re all three are here for the weekend, you can attend church with us tomorrow”, Carl said to Robert, Oliver, and Elain—his tone casual, but Mary caught the way his fingers tightened around his tea mug, the ceramic creaking faintly under the pressure. Robert exhaled through his nose, stirring his oatmeal absently before meeting Carl’s gaze.

“Thanks, Dad, but I have to be back in my apartment tonight after Mary’s ice skating competition,” Robert said, tapping his spoon against his oatmeal bowl—the dull clinks measured, like he was counting down the seconds before escape.

“Oh, I see. Son, I know you fly a lot, but do you ever stop to think about the importance of church, faith, and even family?”

“Yes, of course I know the importance of family, Dad. I’m going to be at Mary’s competition, aren’t I? I know how much she needs us there. But church and faith? That’s a bit different.”

“Robert, you used to love going to church when you were little”, Donna said softly, reaching across the table to squeeze his hand—her fingers warm against his knuckles.

“Yes, of course I did, Mom. I believe there’s a God out there, sure. But when you’re a pilot, you quickly realize that religion doesn’t write the laws of aerodynamics.”

“Well, maybe God wants to bring you back to Him through flying.”

Robert hadn’t thought much about that. The weight of the jet’s yoke in his hands always felt more tangible than any scripture—more reliable, too.

“But maybe you’ll come to church next Sunday, won’t you?”, Samuel asked.

“Yeah, perhaps.”

Samuel showed Carl and Donna his report card, all straight A’s except for one B in chemistry—the circled grade faintly smudged where his thumb had rubbed the paper raw during the bus ride home. Carl traced the edge of the report with his calloused fingertip, pausing at the teacher’s note: *Samuel excels in discussion but rushes lab work.* The scent of ozone clung to the paper from the school printer, mingling with the burnt toast still cooling on the table.

Aneurin then showed his report and he still got good grades—mostly A’s—yet he sighed as he tapped the circled B in calculus. "Mr. Lowell says I overthink proofs," he said, scratching at the ink smudge where his pencil had dug too deep into the margin. Carl studied the paper, thumb brushing the teacher’s note about "brilliant intuition undermined by second-guessing," then glanced at Aneurin’s restless fingers drumming the table. "Sounds like you and Samuel could swap study habits," Carl mused, nudging Samuel’s shoulder—the contact light, but Samuel still stiffened, his toast crumbs scattering like punctuation marks.

Mary then showed her report card—mostly A’s, except for a couple of C’s in math—her thumbnail digging into the edge of the paper where Mr. Henley had scribbled *Needs to show work*.

“Oh, honey, you’re trying,” Carl said, smoothing his thumb over the creased edge of Mary’s report card—his fingerprints lingering on the ink like a silent prayer.

Carl gave Mary a hug—the kind that smelled like aftershave and tea leaves—before pulling away to tap her nose lightly with his index finger. "You'll get those math grades up," he murmured, and kissed her forehead, the rough stubble on his chin grazing her skin like sandpaper.

The rest of the morning was spent clearing plates and dodging conversations about report cards—Mary stacking dishes with exaggerated care while Samuel scraped leftover eggs into the trash, his shoulders hunched against Carl’s lingering gaze. Elain dried forks one by one, the towel catching on tines as she stole glances at her siblings—Robert staring out the window at the overcast sky, Aneurin thumbing through a physics textbook with restless energy. The kitchen clock ticked louder in the lulls, each second stretching thin like taffy.

****
Josiah worked his shift, and got off in time for Allie’s ballet recital. When he saw Ivan and Sienna and the boys in the auditorium, he took his seat beside them. Then he saw Tobias and Hilda, Caleb and Rhoda, and Nathan and Addi seated next to them—Addi gave Josiah a quick wave. Allie emerged onstage in her glittering tutu, the spotlight catching the sequins along her bodice like scattered stars.

Allie danced gracefully to the soft piano melody, her arms floating like willow branches in a breeze. Josiah leaned forward—his elbows pressing into his knees—and noticed how her concentration never wavered, even when a boy in the front row giggled. The sequins on her tutu caught the stage lights, scattering tiny rainbows across the first three rows of seats.

As soon as her piece was finished, Allie smiled—just a small curve of lips—but Josiah saw the way her chest rose with a silent, relieved breath They all met with Allie backstage after the recital, where she had already changed into her favorite butterfly shirt and jeans—the tutu carefully folded in her backpack, sequins still clinging to her socks.

“Grams, Mimi, did you see me?”, Allie asked Tobias and Hilda, bouncing on her toes—her ballet flats squeaking against the polished backstage floor.

After having only two grandsons Dan and Frank, Tobias and Hilda were thrilled to finally have a granddaughter Allie to spoil. Tobias lifted Allie up and spun her gently, her butterfly shirt fluttering against his worn flannel.

“You were brilliant, firefly,” Tobias murmured, pressing a kiss to Allie’s temple.

“I wish Auntie Phoebe and Uncle Silas could come and watch me”, Allie said, fiddling with the hem of her butterfly shirt.

“We wish they could, too, so does your mommy and daddy, but they live far away”, Hilda said, brushing a stray curl from Allie’s forehead.

“You, I actually loved doing ballet when I was your age”, Addi said to Allie, crouching slightly to meet her gaze.

Allie blinked up at her. “Did you wear sparkly shoes too?” she whispered, as if sharing a sacred secret. Addi laughed and tapped Allie’s nose with one polished fingernail. “Sparklier. Pink satin with actual rhinestones.”

“Your auntie Addi was a princess and a swan”, Tobias said, winking as he lowered Allie back to the floor.

Josiah smiled at Allie’s grin—her joy so unguarded it made his chest ache—and ruffled her hair, his fingers catching on a stray sequin stuck in her curls. "You danced like a real pro, kiddo," he said, leaning down just enough to meet her gaze. The backstage lights flickered overhead, casting long shadows that made her butterfly shirt shimmer like actual wings.

“How about we all go get something to eat? All on me”, Tobias announced, patting his jacket pocket—the crinkle of his wallet audible beneath the chatter backstage.

Josiah chuckled. His father was a wealthy man, and to hear him announce that he was paying for dinner was amusing—like a king offering to buy his own crown. Tobias was already pulling out his wallet—his fingers stiff with arthritis but determined—while Hilda adjusted Allie’s backpack straps.

Chapter 26

***
The Eliraz family arrived at a Jewish deli Tobias favored—the kind with pickled herring under glass and rye bread stacked like bricks behind the counter. Allie pressed her nose against the display case, fogging the glass with each breath as she counted the rainbow of macarons. Caleb slid into the booth beside Josiah, his elbow bumping a bowl of pickles that sloshed brine onto the waxed paper tablecloth.

“Josiah, could come and stay the night at my house?”, Ivan asked, tearing a piece of rye bread into precise squares—the crumbs scattering like confetti across his placemat.

“Oh, of course I will”, Josiah said, nodding as he reached for the pickle jar—its brine sloshing against the glass like a tiny tide.

“Great, Uncle Jo. You can attend church with us tomorrow”, Dan said, sliding a pickle spear onto his plate—the brine pooling in tiny droplets before soaking into the wax paper beneath.

“You’re attending church? When did this happened?”

“We’ve started 10 years ago after that Jewish rally when the pastor came to speak”, Tobias said, “We still attend the synagogue on Saturdays though.” He tore off a piece of rye bread—the crust crackling between his fingers—and dipped it into the bowl of borscht, the beetroot staining his knuckles pink. Hilda nudged him with her elbow, nodding toward Allie, who was carefully arranging pickle slices into a smiley face on her plate.

“We’ve actually found a home church here in Mount Prospect”, Ivan said, “New Hope Village Church. The senior pastor explains the original Hebrew scriptures alongside the New Testament. The boys and Allie love the children’s programs—they even have a replica of the Ark of the Covenant in the Sunday school room.”

“Oh, that real estate lady Donna Burton who sold us our house, she actually goes to church there”, Sienna said, tapping her fork against the edge of her plate—the tines leaving tiny crescent marks in the wax paper.

“Donna Burton? Did she ever mentioned about a son named Robert?”, Caleb asked, plucking a sesame seed from his rye bread—his fingers leaving tiny indentations in the crust.

“Yes, she did. Why?”

“I work with him for Pan-Con. He’s a second officer pilot navigator but I think he’s working his way up to first officer co-pilot.”

“Robert? I actually went to school with him, started kindergarten and graduated high school together,” Josiah said, fingers tapping against the pickle jar—condensation dripping onto the wax paper like slow revelations.

Caleb’s eyebrows lifted slightly, his fork pausing midair over his pastrami sandwich. “Small world.”

“Donna’s oldest daughter Elain and I went to school together, and now we’re roommates at the University of South Chicago”, Addi chimed in, twisting a napkin between her fingers—the fibers fraying under her restless grip.

“Wow! It is a small world,” Josiah mused, tracing the rim of his water glass—the condensation pooling beneath it like unfinished thoughts.

Across the booth, Allie nudged her plate toward him, her pickle-smile now adorned with olive eyes and a carrot nose. It was adorable, and Josiah grinned. But his attention drifted back to Caleb—his colleague’s words about Robert lingering like a faint hum beneath the deli’s chatter. He wondered if Robert still flew those early morning cargo routes, the ones where the cockpit lights blurred into the predawn stars.

****
Mary’s ice skating competition was held in a rink that smelled of Zamboni exhaust and stale popcorn, the fluorescent lights reflecting off the ice in sharp, watery patterns. She adjusted her sequined dress nervously, her fingers brushing the laminated number pinned to her back—*112*—as the announcer’s voice crackled over the loudspeaker. Robert sat stiffly in the bleachers beside Carl, their breath fogging in the cold air, while Donna clutched a camcorder with white-knuckled intensity.

Mary’s number was “Sleeping Beauty Waltz,” and as the first notes trembled through the rink’s speakers, she pushed off—the blade of her left skate catching the ice with a crisp, decisive scrape. The sequins along her sleeves threw prismatic shards across the rink walls, each twirl sending them dancing like scattered fireflies. Halfway through her routine, she landed a shaky but clean single axel, her exhale puffing visibly in the frigid air as she transitioned into a spiraling camel spin. Carl’s fingers dug into his knees, his gloves creaking, while Robert leaned forward unconsciously—his pilot’s reflexes tensed as if he could will her balance into stability from the stands.

As soon as her routine ended, Mary wobbled slightly before freezing into her final pose—arms outstretched, right leg extended behind her like a trembling compass needle. The judges' pens scratched against their clipboards, the sound sharp against the muffled whispers in the stands. Behind the rink's plexiglass, Samuel pressed both palms flat against the barrier, his breath fogging the surface as he mouthed *You nailed it*—though her score wouldn't appear for another agonizing three minutes.

Mary scored an 8.2—higher than last month’s 7.8—and her cheeks flushed pink beneath the rink lights as she skated toward the exit, her blades etching serpentine trails in the ice. Carl caught her at the gate, crushing her in a hug that made her sequins dig into his wool coat, his aftershave mingling with the rink’s artificial cold. "Proud of you, kiddo," he murmured, pressing a twenty into her glove—the crisp bill folded into a tight square, like a secret passed between spies.

“Thank you, Daddy”, Mary said, tucking the folded bill into her skate bag where it wouldn’t get lost—her fingers brushing against the damp tissues and half-frozen lip balm at the bottom. She flexed her ankles experimentally, wincing at the raw spot where her right skate had rubbed through the sock.

They went out to eat at a diner, where Mary ordered a veggie burger with ketchup, mustard, and extra pickles and sweet potato fries with ranch dip, her fingers still stiff from the cold as she peeled back the wrapper. She glanced around—Robert was sitting across from her, absently stirring his coffee with a spoon, the metal clinking against the ceramic cup in slow, rhythmic circles. His expression was unreadable—the same detached focus she'd seen when he studied flight charts—but when their eyes met, he gave her a quick nod. "Clean landing on that axel," he muttered, just loud enough for her to hear over the diner's chatter.

“Thank you”, Mary said, dipping a fry into ranch—her fingers lingering just a second too long before withdrawing, the ranch dripping onto her napkin like a tiny landslide. Robert’s coffee spoon had gone still, its reflection wobbling in the black liquid as Donna leaned forward, elbows on the table, her camcorder resting between the salt and pepper shakers.

“Did you see how she held that landing?” Donna asked Robert, her thumbnail tapping the camcorder’s playback button—once, twice—until the tiny screen flickered to life, replaying Mary’s spin in grainy silence.

As soon as they finished their meals, Robert drove back to his apartment complex and the rest home in Mount Prospect. Mary, who was sitting between Samuel and Aneurin, watched the streetlights blur into streaks of gold against the darkening sky—her skate bag wedged between her feet like an anchor. At a red light, Carl drummed his fingers against the steering wheel in time with the radio's static-tinged jazz, his wedding band clicking against the plastic with each tap.

****
Josiah arrived at Ivan’s house, where Dan and Frank showed him their toy train set—the wooden tracks forming a perfect oval on the living room rug, their tiny locomotives chugging along with exaggerated choo-choo sounds.

“Look, Uncle Jo—it even has a tunnel!” Frank pressed a plastic button on the control box, and the train disappeared into a painted cardboard cavern with a tinny whistle.

“See that?”, Dan said, pointing to a miniature plastic bridge spanning the tracks—his finger casting a shadow that flickered across the train cars like a passing cloud. Josiah crouched beside them, the scent of cedar from the toy box mixing with the metallic tang of the train wheels as they clicked rhythmically over the joints. Frank nudged the throttle forward slightly, making the locomotive wobble as it emerged from the tunnel, its tiny headlight cutting a faint yellow stripe across the rug’s worn fibers.

Soon after, Josiah went into Allie’s room, who was already in her pajamas—her damp hair curling at the ends from a hurried post-recital bath. It was a girly room, with pink walls with butterflies on and dolls all lined up in a row. Josiah sat on the edge of her bed, the mattress springs creaking faintly under his weight.

“Uncle Jo, can you tell me a story?”, Allie whispered as she clutched her teddy bear while sitting up in bed. The bedside lamp cast long shadows across her shelves of porcelain dolls, their glassy eyes glinting in the half-light.

Josiah smiled, adjusting the frayed edge of Allie's quilt. “Yes, of course,” he murmured, tapping his temple as if searching for the right tale. “Once, there was a girl who could hear colors—not like synesthesia, but actual voices. The reds were always shouting, the blues whispered gossip, and the yellows…” His fingers wiggled near Allie’s ear, making her giggle as she burrowed deeper under the covers. “The yellows sang off-key show tunes. The oranges never kept a secret. The greens were always coughing. The purples hummed and the browns were always arguing. The pinks giggled too much. The blacks were silent—they never spoke at all. The whites were always humming. The grays were always depressed. The girl was the only one who could hear them.”

Allie giggled again, but this time her laughter tapered into a thoughtful silence as she studied Josiah’s face—her small fingers tracing the stitching on her teddy bear’s worn paw. “Did the girl ever get tired of hearing them?” she asked, her voice barely louder than the hum of the nightlight.

Josiah chuckled. "Sometimes. But she learned to paint them—each stroke letting the colors spill onto canvas until they quieted." He mimed brushing the air, watching Allie's eyes follow his hand like it held invisible pigments. “She became famous—her paintings whispered in galleries, but only she knew what they really said.”

Ivan stepped into the doorway just as Josiah finished his story, his socked feet silent against the hardwood floor. He smiled as he watched Allie bond with her favorite uncle—Josiah’s storytelling always had a way of making the ordinary feel magical.

“Time for bed, firefly,” Ivan murmured, leaning down to press a kiss to Allie’s forehead.

“Night-night, daddy”, Allie whispered, already nestling deeper under her quilt—her teddy bear tucked securely beneath her chin. “Night-night, Uncle Jo.”

Josiah smiled as Allie’s breathing evened out, her eyelashes casting delicate shadows on her cheeks. He reached over to adjust her nightlight—a ceramic butterfly that pulsed faintly—before rising carefully, the floorboard creaking under his socked foot. He pressed a kiss on her forehead before turning toward the door, where Ivan leaned against the frame.

“She sure appreciates her favorite uncle”, Ivan said as he closed Allie’s door with a soft click—the latch catching with a sound like a breath being held. He leaned against the hallway wall, the worn floral wallpaper pressing faint ridges into his shoulder blades. “You always did have a knack for spinning bedtime tales better than Grimm.”

Josiah chuckled and leaned against the hallway wall beside Ivan, his shoulder bumping a framed photo of Allie’s first ballet recital—the glass slightly smudged at the corner where tiny fingerprints lingered. "Grimm’s got nothing on the Eliraz family lore," he murmured.

They went into the kitchen where there was a coffee pot and electric tea kettle. Although Ivan and Sienna both drank coffee, Josiah preferred tea—his fingers tracing the kettle’s cord absently before plugging it in.

“Josiah, you remember Mom’s morning routine, don’t you?”, Ivan asked as he and Josiah sat at the kitchen table.

“Yes. It included the coffeepot on a timer kicking on at six, percolating her special blend of dark roast with an eggshell thrown in,” Josiah said, the electric kettle clicking off behind him—its steam curling toward the ceiling like a ghost of memory. “She still does that.”

“Yeah, and that’s what Sienna’s been doing as well. Research says that blending coffee with eggshells reduces bitterness.”

“Ah. Well, tea will always be my preference. Just smells like mornings before school.” Josiah poured hot water over chamomile leaves. “Sienna sure has become quite the homemaker—just like Mom.” Steam curled between them, softening the kitchen’s fluorescent glare.

“Yes, and I am proud of her. She even has a local Christian station on the radio set to come on at 6:30, right after her coffee finishes brewing.”

Josiah nodded. Though he was still set in his Jewish traditions, he enjoyed doting on his nephews and niece—their enthusiasm for church infectious, even if he couldn’t quite share it. The kettle’s steam curled around his face, carrying the scent of chamomile.

“You’ll be coming to church with us tomorrow, won’t you, Josiah?”, Ivan asked, taking a sip of tea—the ceramic clinking softly against his wedding ring.

“Yeah. What time?”

“They have two services, though the kids are usually in Sunday School during first service. You know that more people have been attending lately—especially after Charlie Kirk’s tragic death.”

Josiah recalled Charlie Kirk speaking at college campuses for Turning Point USA and seeing the news about the assassination at a rally in Orem, Utah September 10, 2025—bullet fired from the parking lot, chaos erupting as Charlie collapsed against the podium.

“Why would more people be attending church after a tragedy like that?” Josiah asked, swirling his tea—the leaves swirling like sediment in an hourglass.

“I don’t understand it myself, but Pastor Billings said that a church founding father said, ‘The blood of the martyrs is the seed of the church,’” Ivan said, rubbing his thumb along the rim of his mug. “When Stephan was stoned, the church grew. When persecution came, believers multiplied.”

Josiah hadn’t thought of this, but maybe Ivan was right—something about tragedy drew people to pews like moths to porch lights. He finished his tea, watching the dregs settle in the bottom like sediment in a riverbed. He said good night to Ivan, his footsteps echoing down the hallway—past the framed photos of graduations and bar mitzvahs, their glass surfaces smudged with fingerprints from years of hurried greetings.

****
Carl and Donna had been reading through their devotional on the master bed, the pages whispering softly as they turned. Donna’s fingers lingered on a passage about forgiveness—her nail tracing the indentation of a highlighted verse—while Carl rubbed his temple absently, the day’s tension settling behind his eyes like sediment.

“What are you thinking about, Hon?”, Carl asked, closing his devotional with a soft thump.

“A lot, actually. Mary’s skating competition was thrilling, but I couldn’t stop thinking about Pastor Billings’ sermon last Sunday—the part where he said doubt isn’t the opposite of faith. Silence is.” Donna’s thumb paused mid-page, pressing into the thin paper until it dimpled. “Our girl’s asking hard questions, Carl. And I don’t want her to think she has to whisper them.”

Carl sighed. “She’s always been quiet, but has she ever *asked* you about faith? Not just nodding along—really asked?”

“Not really. Even Youth pastor Jordan said she asks fewer questions than the other kids. But I guess that’s what teenagers do—nod along while their minds race.” Donna folded the corner of her devotional page, pressing the crease with her thumbnail until it made a tiny, decisive dent. “Maybe we’ve made faith seem like a monologue instead of a conversation.”

“Perhaps we have. And Aneurin… hanging out with the wild crowd lately. He still attends church and youth group, is still athletic, and gets good grades—but he’s also been into drugs, smoking, drinking, and partying. It’s almost like he’s living a double life.”

“I’ve noticed that, too. I worry about him, Carl.”

Carl put a hand on Donna’s shoulder, his fingertips brushing the worn fabric of her pajama sleeve—the same light blue set she’d had since Mary was a baby, the cuffs fraying from years of restless folding. “Hey, church is tomorrow. Maybe after service, we‘ll all go out for lunch—somewhere quiet, away from the usual crowd. Give the kids room to talk.”

Donna nodded in agreement, her fingers curling around the edge of her devotional as Carl reached for the bedside lamp—the click of the switch plunging the room into darkness, save for the faint glow of streetlights filtering through the blinds.

Chapter 27

Sunday morning was quiet—too quiet, Mary thought. Carl’s keys jingled as he plucked them from the hook by the door—an impatient sound, like a clock ticking faster than it should. Oliver and Elain would each be taking their own car, while Samuel, Aneurin, and Mary were already seated in the backseat, with Mary in the middle.

“I think we should be taking notes so we can talk about it later”, Carl said, tapping his Bible against his thigh as the car rolled past a boarded-up storefront—its windows covered in peeling posters for last year’s county fair.

“Good idea, Dad”, Samuel said, tugging at his collar—the starched fabric scratching his neck like a persistent insect. He flipped open his notebook to a fresh page, the blue lines glaring under the morning sunlight slicing through the car window. Aneurin slumped lower in his seat, fingers drumming against his thigh in sync with the radio’s Christian station.

“I wish Robert could join us for church”, Donna murmured, adjusting the rearview mirror—her reflection flickering across the glass like a ghost caught between past and present.

“Why did he had to go back to Chicago?”, Mary asked, tapping her knees together—the fabric of her tights whispering against itself like leaves caught in a breeze. “Did he had a flight scheduled today?”

“No, he doesn’t. Though he’s got a flight to London sometime this week”, Samuel said, flipping his notebook page.

Carl pulled in the New Hope Village Church parking lot, the tires crunching over patches of leftover snow like brittle sugar. Mary spotted Jordan near the entrance, his breath forming quick clouds as he greeted early arrivals—his usual navy blazer swapped for a thick wool coat today, the collar flipped up against the wind. Aneurin groaned under his breath when he saw Pastor Billings standing just inside the doors, shaking hands with the precision of a man who’d timed Sunday greetings down to the second.

“Hello, Mary-bear”, Jordan said as she approached, his breath curling in the frigid air—the old nickname landing softly between them.

Mary smiled. "Morning, Jor-Jor," she murmured—the childhood nickname slipping out before she could stop it, her cheeks flushing pinker than Rosie’s bow.

Jordan chuckled and gave her a hug, smelling faintly of cedar aftershave and peppermint gum. Mary felt warmth spread through her wool coat where his arms pressed—just like when he'd carried her when she was a baby.

Inside the foyer, the scent of tea and cinnamon rolls wrapped around Mary as she followed Jordan toward the youth room, past clusters of kids laughing over doughnut crumbs. She spotted Gracie waving from a circle of girls, her mouth full of powdered sugar. Across the room, Ronnie was balancing a stack of napkins on his head while Cheryl watched, arms crossed but grinning. Then Mary noticed Raymie with his Bible open—too wide, like he was using it as a shield.

When they were all seated, Jordan opened with prayer and taught about the Rich Young Ruler—how he kept all the commandments yet lacked one thing. Mary traced the grain of the wooden pew with her fingernail, the varnish smooth under her touch. Aneurin kept glancing at his phone under his jacket sleeve, the glow reflecting in his pupils like muted lightning.

“As you can see, this rich young man had everything,” Jordan said, pacing between the rows with his Bible open—the pages fluttering slightly in the draft from the heating vent. “But when Jesus told him to sell it all, he walked away sorrowful. What happened to him next? I do not know. But I know that Jesus loved him—enough to tell him the truth.”

“Jordan, do you think the rich young man eventually came around?” Gracie asked, twisting a strand of hair around her finger—the copper catching the overhead lights like filament in an old bulb.

“Possibly, but only God knows the heart. The Apostle Paul mentions in I Corinthians 15 and I Thessalonians 4 how when the trumpet sounds, the dead in Christ will be raised first—so it’s possible that he repented later,” Jordan said, leaning against the lectern—his fingers tapping the worn wood with a rhythm like Morse code.

Mary glanced at Aneurin again, his jaw tightening as Jordan spoke about the Rapture—his fingers now gripping his phone so hard the knuckles blanched. Although Mary was sweet and innocent, the concept of the Rapture was something she didn’t fully understand—the idea of her family vanishing without her leaving a lump in her throat that no amount of swallowing could dislodge.

“Now let me close by saying this,” Jordan said, tucking his Bible under his arm—the gold-edged pages catching the overhead light like a sliver of dawn. “The rich young ruler’s problem wasn’t his wealth. It was his *heart*. You can follow every rule and still miss the point. I pray that whatever Christ asks you to surrender, you’ll trust Him enough to let go. This might also be a good time to be praying that some great things will be happening real soon, even this week. Right well and LORD willing, next Sunday’s service could be *very* different.”

Jordan closed in prayer, his knuckles whitening against the lectern as Aneurin abruptly shoved his phone into his pocket—the sharp crinkle of vinyl breaking the silence like a snapped thread. Mary watched her brother's Adam's apple bob twice, quick and shallow, before he turned his face toward the stained-glass window where morning light fractured into jagged crimson across his cheekbone. Behind them, Raymie's pencil scratched feverishly across notebook margins, the graphite scoring deep grooves where he'd rewritten *"one thing you lack"* three times in uneven block letters.

“Samuel, Aneurin, what do you think Jordan meant when he said ‘next Sunday could be *very* different’?” Mary whispered in the crowded hallway after service, her fingers twisting the hem of her sweater—the yarn fraying slightly under her touch.

“Maybe there will be more people next week”, Aneurin said, his voice flat.

“I think he’s implying the Rapture could happen this week,” Samuel said quietly, “That’s what Dad’s been hinting at too.”

When they and their parents and Oliver and Elain took their seat in the third row in the sanctuary, Mary turned and noticed Irene who reached the fifth pew, aisle end, piano side, Raymie was already there.

“What’d you learn about today?” Irene asked.

“The rich young ruler,” Raymie said. “Do you think Jesus really meant for him to get rid of everything he had, or was He just testing the guy?”

“I don’t know. But either way the rich man failed, didn’t he? He got to keep all his stuff, but he had to be miserable. He didn’t really want the Kingdom of God. He wanted to serve himself.”

“Kind of like Dad.”

Irene flinched. She hadn’t thought of that, maybe because she had never seen Rayford as particularly wealthy, and he certainly wasn’t a ruler. “How so?”

Raymie shrugged. “It just seems like everything is about him. I mean, he’s not nasty about it or anything. It’s just that what he wants comes first, and then if he’s got time for anybody else, then maybe he’ll . . . I don’t know.”

“Your dad can be a very kind and gentle man, Raymie.”

“I know. I remember. Maybe he just liked Chloe best. Now that she’s away, he’s different.”

Now there was something Irene had never put together. “First of all, Raymie, I’ve never once heard your dad compare you with Chloe or say he liked either of you best. I believe he loves you both deeply and to the same degree. It might interest you to know that Chloe assumed your dad liked you best because you were a boy.”

“Really?”

Irene nodded. But the idea of Rayford’s biggest change coming with the departure of Chloe . . . now that was something to consider. When Chloe had been around, the emphasis had been on her. And she and Rayford had been partners in this antichurch, anti-God thing. Now Rayford had to be more creative, and he had no compatriot. But was it also possible that what was beginning to look like middle-age angst was just a man deeply missing his daughter? Irene could certainly be sensitive to that. She herself ached for Chloe, especially because there had risen between them some sort of rift that seemed to change their relationship—she hoped not forever.

Mary couldn’t help but overhear Irene and Raymie’s hushed conversation—the tension between them palpable, like static before a storm. Though Mary had always been sweet and innocent, and had a good relationship with both her parents and siblings, she was struggling with doubts—doubts that she never voiced to anyone—doubts that felt like stones in her stomach as she sat there in the third pew. She wondered if Robert‘s absence from church was somehow related to these doubts, or if he was just busy with work like Rayford was.

After all the usual preliminaries—call to worship, prayer, singing, special music, offering, and announcements—it was finally time for Pastor Billings’s sermon. “Those of you who have been in your seats for a few moments may want to glance around before I begin,” he said. “This may be the largest crowd ever accommodated by this building.”

After Pastor Billings opened with his usual prayer, he ran through a fast recap of what he had already covered in the series then preached on what he had done before: John 14:1-6, 1 Thessalonians 4:13-18, 1 Corinthians 15:50-58, and Revelation 21. However, this time, he put more emphasis on the imminence of Christ’s return. He reiterated what Jordan had implied earlier—that next Sunday could be *very* different—but he didn’t say it outright.

“In Jewish culture, especially during the first century, when the bridegroom paid the bride price, he’d return to his father’s house to prepare a place for her,” Pastor Billings said, his fingers tapping the pulpit—each tap punctuating his words like a metronome. “The bride never knew *when* he’d come back—only that he *would*. Jesus obviously knew about this when He told His disciples, ‘I go to prepare a place for you and will come again to receive you.’ So why do we act surprised when He says He’s coming back?”

Irene was scribbling as fast as she could, and Raymie was too. It was nearly overwhelming, all this detail. Never before had she so looked forward to the return of Christ. Carl and Donna were as well, so were Oliver and Elain. Carl never had anything to look forward to, except maybe retirement someday. But now he had something far better to anticipate—something worth the wait. Donna had never been more certain that her faith was real. She had heard all the arguments, all the evidences, all the proofs, but now she was convinced.

But Pastor Billings was not finished. He told of three separate judgments: the judgment seat of Christ for believers, the judgment of nations, and the Great White Throne judgment. “And if you’re wondering which is which,” he said, pausing to sip from his water glass—the ice cubes clinking like distant chimes—“the answer is simple. The first determines rewards, the second determines who enters the millennium, and the last…” His knuckles whitened around the pulpit’s edge. “Well, let’s just say you don’t want to be there.”

Pastor Billings stated that there was only going to be two options for every single person in the eternal state: in Heaven or in Hell—no middle ground, no second chances. Then he gave an altar call—an invitation—and merely stepped away from the pulpit, descended the three steps from the platform, and stood at floor level before the first pew. He stretched his arms wide and said quietly, “If you would be ready, come.”

And from every corner of the sanctuary they came. Ones and twos, then groups of a dozen and more, weeping, rushing, kneeling at the front, eager to receive Christ, to be ready for the Rapture regardless of when it occurred.

As soon church was let out, Mary stepped out of the building and into the crisp sunlight—her breath curling in the cold air like a ghost of words she couldn’t bring herself to say. The parking lot hummed with subdued chatter as families navigated slushy puddles. Jordan approached with slow steps, his hands shoved deep into his coat pockets—his usual warmth dulled by something Mary couldn’t name. "You okay?" he asked, his gaze flicking toward Aneurin, who was already halfway to the car, shoulders hunched like he was carrying an invisible weight.

“Yeah. Jordan, do you—” Mary hesitated, her mittens twisting together—the knit wool rasping softly like dry grass in winter wind. She glanced toward the church steps where Samuel stood talking to Pastor Billings, his forehead creased in that way it did when he was wrestling with something too big for words. “Do you think God gets tired of people doubting?”

Jordan exhaled through his nose—a slow, deliberate breath that fogged the air between them. His fingers flexed inside his pockets like he was physically restraining an answer. "Tired?" He shook his head once. "He built Thomas’s doubt into the resurrection story. Wrote it down for everybody to read." Behind them, Donna's laugh sliced through the cold—bright and sudden—as she tugged Carl's sleeve toward the parking lot.

“Thomas needed proof, didn’t he?”

“Yeah, and remember when Jesus appeared to him, Mary?” Jordan’s thumb brushed a snowflake off his coat sleeve, watching it dissolve into nothing on his glove. “He didn’t scold Thomas. Just showed him the scars, and said, ‘Stop doubting—believe.’ Thomas got his proof. But then—” Jordan’s voice dropped, his breath clouding between them like a veil—“Jesus added something else. He said blessed are those who believe *without* seeing.”

Mary's mittens stilled against each other, the frayed threads catching on her thumbnail. “So doubting isn’t the worst thing?” she murmured, watching Samuel scrape his boot against the church steps—the packed snow fracturing under his heel like stale bread.

Jordan sighed—a sound that carried more weight than the cold could hold. “Worst thing? Worst thing is pretending you don’t have questions when you do.”

Mary nodded, and Jordan’s gaze lingered on her face for a heartbeat too long—like he was memorizing the way her nose wrinkled when she frowned. A gust of wind snatched at her scarf, sending the loose end flapping against her coat buttons like a trapped bird. Behind them, Samuel finally broke away from Pastor Billings, his footsteps crunching through the crust of snow with deliberate heaviness.

Chapter 28

****
As soon as the Burton family got in Carl’s sedan (except for Oliver and Elain who each had their own cars), Carl turned to Samuel, Aneurin, and Mary who were all seated in the backseat—Mary in the middle—and said, “What did you learn today in Sunday School?”

“Pastor Jordan taught about the rich young ruler”, Samuel said, his fingers drumming a slow rhythm against the car window. “He walked away sorrowful because he wouldn’t give up his wealth.”

“Ah, the rich young ruler, huh?”

“Yeah. Mommy, Daddy, before service, I’ve overheard Raymie talking with his mom about that lesson and he said he thinks his dad with what he wants comes first and only then if he’s got time for anybody else,” Mary said, her fingers tightening around Rosie’s paw as the car heater hummed to life. “Do you think that’s why Robert stopped coming to church? I mean, for the same reason?”

Carl and Donna exchanged a glance—a silent conversation passing between them in the rearview mirror’s reflection. The car’s heater clicked off abruptly, leaving only the sound of tires rolling over salted pavement. Carl cleared his throat. "Rayford’s always been… particular about his priorities," he said carefully, fingers flexing on the steering wheel.

“Robert was actually eager for church when he was little, just like you were, honey”, Donna said, “However, when he got into high school, he started changing—almost like he was trying to prove something to himself.”

“I’ve heard of kids who grew up in the church drop out in high school and eventually in college”, Samuel said, tapping his phone screen. “I think Robert just got exposed to more worldly ideas at Prospect High. Then at aviation school, no one ever talked about Jesus.”

Aneurin shifted in his seat, pressing his forehead against the cold window glass. “It’s not like he’s evil,” he muttered. “He just doesn’t care anymore.”

Mary’s fingers curled deeper into Rosie’s fur as the car slowed at a red light. Outside, a street preacher waved a tattered Bible, his breath visible in the frigid air. Samuel exhaled sharply, thumb hovering over his phone screen where an article about Greenland’s annexation glowed. “Maybe that’s the scariest part,” he said. “Not hating God—just forgetting He exists.”

As soon as they returned home and went outside, Carl checked his phone for messages and saw one from Dirk: *I’ve sent Buck an email the following: Cameron, you always tell me this message center is confidential, and I hope you’re right. I’m not even going to identify myself, but you know who it is. Let me tell you something major and encourage you to come here as quickly as possible. The big man—your compatriot, the one I call the supreme power broker internationally—met here the other day with the one I call our muckety-muck. You know who I mean. There was a third party at the meeting. All I know is that he’s from Europe, probably Eastern Europe. I don’t know what their plans are for him, but apparently they’re something on a huge scale. “My sources say your man has met with each of his key people and this same European in different locations. He introduced him to people in China, the Vatican, Israel, France, Germany, here, and the States. Something is cooking, and I don’t even want to suggest what it is other than in person. Visit me as soon as you can. In case that’s not possible, let me just encourage this: watch the news for the installation of a new leader in Europe. If you say, as I did, that no elections are scheduled and no changes of power are imminent, you’ll get my drift. Come soon, friend.*

Carl read through Dirk's text again, his thumb pressing into the phone screen hard enough to leave a temporary dent in the glass. He replied with a question: *European—Romanian?* The dots pulsed for what felt like minutes before Dirk’s answer appeared: *Possibly. He’s young. Charismatic.* Carl exhaled through his nose, watching Donna through the kitchen window as she stirred honey into her tea—the steam curling around her fingers like smoke from an offering.

“Dad, what is it?”, Samuel asked, watching Carl’s fingers tighten around his phone. The kitchen window cast a grid of light across the porch steps, dividing Carl’s shadow into fractured squares.

“Your uncle Dirk has a knack for finding trouble,” Carl said, showing Samuel the text—the words glowing stark against the dimming evening light.

“A young charismatic person from Eastern Europe being elected as President of the European Council—but no elections are scheduled?” Samuel murmured, scrolling through recent newsfeeds with deliberate slowness.

“Yeah. Samuel, imagine if someone becomes President of the United States while it’s still the middle of his predecessor’s term—without any election.” Carl tapped his phone against his palm—three slow beats like a muted drumroll.

Samuel’s fingers froze mid-scroll, the screen reflecting in his widened pupils. “That’d mean something broke.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Or someone *made* it break.”

“It could be, but I think this tells me something.”

“What’s that?”

“The Russian airstrike in Israel a year ago, the world currency being reduced to three, geopolitical shifts, and now a young charismatic Eastern European who may soon be elected president of his country- the Rapture may be nearer than we think.”

"Carl, do you think the stage is being set for the prophecy Pastor Billings have been talking about in his sermons?" Donna asked, her teaspoon clinking softly against the china as she stirred her tea—the amber liquid swirling like liquid fire in the low afternoon light.

“I believe so, dear. This Eastern European, whoever he is, I believe he’ll be the one known as the Antichrist”, Carl said, his voice steady despite the way his fingers trembled slightly against the teacup—the faintest ripple disturbing the liquid’s surface like the first tremor before an earthquake. Outside, a gust of wind rattled the kitchen window, scattering raindrops against the glass like thrown pebbles.

“Pastor Jordan had mentioned something about the Antichrist before, but even said he’s referred to as *the Beast*”, Samuel said, swiping to an article about rising nationalist rhetoric in Romania—the photo showed a crowded square, banners snapping like black wings in the wind.
“He said that when John was writing Revelation, chapter 13, he was writing about the Antichrist as God views him—literally a beast.”

Carl received a message from Buck, who informed him that he was coming to Chicago to see Lucinda. Anticipation, Buck Williams had come to realize, was his favorite part of the job. Buck simply liked the planning of his days as much—if not more—than the days themselves. Nothing fulfilled him more than taking a Sunday afternoon, idly watching sports on television and scoping out his next week on his computer, then downloading his schedule to his iPhone. As each task—rated by order of importance—was checked off, he felt better and better about himself. Someone had referred to him as an overachiever, but he didn’t see it that way. He believed the difference between him and a thousand other guys—stalled or stuck in jobs they didn’t like—had less to do with luck than it did with doing a thousand little things right. He knew he lived a charmed life. He traveled extensively; met interesting, important people; drew great assignments; and was paid well. More than well. He lived way beyond a level that would have easily satisfied him. His tastes were simple, yet his apartment in Manhattan was unattainable for anyone below his station. Buck left little to chance. Everything was planned and plotted. And as he made his lists and double-checked them to be sure he had what he needed, he imagined each experience. If it was a tense reunion, as was scheduled with Lucinda Washington in Chicago this week, he knew it was time to take her up on her promise to expose him to her culture in a great restaurant on the South Side of Chicago. And then, thanks to Marge Potter’s finding a direct Pan-Continental flight out of Chicago, it would be on to London to see Dirk. His quirky friend had been the source of some great and some not-so-great leads over the years, but this one was sure worth pursuing. Second to reuniting with Dirk, though, was the prospect of all those hours in first class over the Atlantic.

Carl replied by asking: *Is Connor coming with you? Maybe he can finally meet both Lucinda’s and my kids.* A pause—the dots pulsed—then Buck’s answer appeared: *Not this time. He’s got school, but I’m sure he’ll meet Samuel and Aneurin eventually.* Carl sighed and replied, *Thank you for letting me know. See you in the office sometime tomorrow.*

*****
Robert had been over at the Steele’s house, talking with Rayford, when Irene and Raymie had come home from church all psyched up. Irene, apparently encouraged by Rayford’s table-setting gesture, did not intervene when Raymie started in about how incredible the sermon had been.

“You’ve got to listen to it, Dad. Really. You’d love it”, Raymie said, leaning forward with his elbows on the kitchen table.

“Maybe I will”, Rayford said, though the way his fingers drummed against the coffee mug—too fast, too restless.

“Promise.”

“Okay, I promise.”

“That’s two promises now, Dad.”

“How well I know.”

“You do?”

“Sure.”

“Next Sunday?”

“Yep. Promise.”

Rayford asked Robert to stay for lunch, and Robert accepted the invitation. Raymie spent the rest of the meal, not to mention the Bulls game, regaling Rayford with point after point from Pastor Billings’s sermon. Amazingly, Rayford actually found it interesting and wondered if perhaps he should have gone. But he wasn’t about to admit that. Who knew what a torrent of information that would unleash? Why couldn’t he just have a normal life, a normal family, a normal wife, a normal son? Nobody he knew had a kid this interested in church. Maybe they went, but what happened in church stayed in church. It wasn’t something you discussed ad nauseam at meals and while watching ball games on TV.

“Ray, have you talked with the rest of the flight crew about the upcoming flight to London?”,
Robert asked, pushing his half-eaten sandwich aside.

Rayford showed Robert the text messages between him and Hattie from that morning:
Hattie: *I’m on the London run.*
Rayford: *Great, Hattie. I’m looking forward to that.*
Hattie: *Me too. More than you know. More than I can say. But maybe not more than I can show.*

Robert read through Hattie's message again—his thumb hovering over the screen—before exhaling sharply through his nose. The scent of Irene’s rosemary-roasted potatoes still hung in the air, mingling with the metallic tang of Rayford’s untouched coffee. Across the living room, Raymie was sprawled on the couch, his sneakers leaving faint streaks on the upholstery as he tapped his phone screen with restless energy.

“Rayford, does Hattie always text like that?” Robert asked, turning the phone slightly as if adjusting the angle might make the message less suggestive. The Bulls game droned on in the background—a missed free throw echoing through the room like punctuation to his question.

Rayford explained to Robert that he had expressly forbidden Hattie to call him at home. It wasn’t that Irene was suspicious. It was that Rayford did not need even the possibility of that eventuality in his life just now. The truth was that he had become obsessed with Hattie, which made Irene, for all her efforts to resurrect their marriage, seem old, cold, plain, and shrill. Rayford knew better. Yes, there were times when she reverted to the Irene of old—the one who used anger or sarcasm to try to make a point. But in his heart of hearts he knew that was his fault too. He had drifted to where the only discipline in his life showed behind the controls of the jumbo jets he piloted. He always looked right and was prepared for that work. But his marriage, he knew, was failing. He did what he wanted to when he wanted to, looking out for number one, his own wife and son largely ignored. And his mind, it seemed, was constantly on the young woman he so enjoyed being with in the car, in the air, at more and more private dinners, and on the phone. But only his cell phone. But here was one of the most alluring women he had ever seen, fifteen years younger than he, and she wanted him. He could tell. He didn’t have to be a Rhodes scholar to figure that out.

Rayford and Robert both knew that landline was phasing out, and Rayford explained that he grateful that he and Irene still had one while most of his neighbors had gotten rid of theirs. Hattie didn't have his home number—not that she wouldn't be able to find it if she tried—but Rayford had made it clear that he didn’t want her calling him at home. He justified this by telling himself it was out of respect for Irene, but the truth was more complicated.

“There’s another thing, Robert. Raymie’s playing a tree in his evening program at school, but unfortunately it’s on the same evening we have our London run”, Rayford said, tapping his wedding band against the coffee mug.

“Well, at least I went to Mary’s skating competition yesterday”, Robert said, rubbing his temple where a tension headache pulsed.

Rayford nodded, his fingers tightening around the mug until his knuckles paled—the ceramic groaning under the pressure. Outside, Irene’s wind chimes clattered in a sudden gust, their hollow notes scattering through the room like loose change. Robert watched Raymie’s reflection in the darkened TV screen, the boy’s thumbs flying over his phone keyboard with the fervor of a cryptographer decoding divine secrets.