Vanished: In The Blink of An Eye (a modern Left Behind series fanfic #1)

Chapter 2

Robert Burton lived in Mount Prospect until he graduated from High School. He had dark hair and was tall. He was the oldest of six children with five younger siblings Oliver, Elain, Samuel, Aneurin and Mary.

When Robert turned 10, Carl gave him his first passport and took him on one of his international trips to Portugal later in the summer. While Carl was reporting on a story in Lisbon, Robert discovered his love for flying. Carl later did the same with the other kids after they each turned ten. Not only that, but Carl also wanted to have a bonding time with each of the kids.

After graduating from Prospect High, Robert decided to pursue a career in aviation, something that had fascinated him since childhood. He moved out on his own in the inner city of Chicago and began taking aviation classes. He eventually worked his way up to Pan-Con 747, serving as a second officer navigator pilot under Captain Rayford Steele and First Officer Christopher “Chris” Smith. Now, at 23 years old, Robert was one of the three pilots on a flight to London, departing from O'Hare Airport.

With his fully loaded 747 on autopilot above the Atlantic en route to a 6 a.m. landing at Heathrow, Rayford had pushed from his mind thoughts of his family. For now, with Chris fighting sleep, Rayford imagined Hattie Durham’s smile and looked forward to their next meeting. Hattie was the senior flight attendant, and she was a 27 year old attractive blonde who flirted shamelessly with Rayford, even though she knew he was married with two children, 20 year old Chloe who was in her junior year at Stanford and 12 year old Raymie who was in the 6th grade at Lincoln Middle School. Rayford used to look forward to getting home to his wife. Irene was attractive and vivacious enough, even at forty. But lately he had found himself repelled by her obsession with religion. It was all she could talk about.

God was OK with Rayford. Rayford even enjoyed church occasionally. But since Irene had hooked up with a smaller congregation and was into weekly Bible studies and church every Sunday, Rayford had become uncomfortable. Hers was not a church where people gave you the benefit of the doubt, assumed the best about you, and let you be. People there had actually asked him, to his face, what God was doing in his life.

Besides, Hattie was drop-dead gorgeous. No one could argue that. He could tell from her expressions, her demeanor, her eye contact that she at least admired and respected him. Whether she was interested in anything more, he could only guess. And so he did.

Rayford was no prude, but he had never been unfaithful to Irene. He’d had plenty of opportunities. Irene had stayed home, uncomfortably past her ninth month carrying their surprise tagalong son, Raymie.

Though under the influence, Rayford had known enough to leave the party early. It was clear Irene noticed he was slightly drunk, but she couldn’t have suspected anything else, not from her straight-arrow captain. He was the pilot who had once consumed two martinis during a snowy shutdown at O’Hare and then voluntarily grounded himself when the weather cleared. He offered to pay for bringing in a relief pilot, but Pan-Continental was so impressed that instead they made an example of his self-discipline and wisdom.

Robert observed Rayford’s subtle glances toward the cockpit door, anticipating Hattie’s next appearance. He had to admit she was attractive—effortlessly charming in that crisp Pan-Con uniform—but Rayford’s preoccupation felt heavier than mere flirtation. Would someone with his reputation ever do anything but dream about a beautiful woman fifteen years his junior? He wasn’t so sure anymore. If only Irene hadn’t gone off on this new kick. Would it fade, her preoccupation with the end of the world, with the love of Jesus, with the salvation of souls? Lately she had been reading everything she could get her hands on about the rapture of the church.

Robert had to admit he enjoyed the international flight routes. The thrill of traveling the globe was unmatched. In the cockpit, he would sit on the side of the controllers, eager to take the wheel of the plane when his time came. Yet on this flight, he couldn’t help but notice Rayford’s distracted gaze towards the cockpit door whenever Hattie passed by.

“Ray, you seem preoccupied. Everything alright?”, Robert asked, noting Rayford’s frequent glances toward the galley where Hattie laughed with another attendant.

“Oh, Robert. Ah, yeah, I’m fine. It’s just... this route," Rayford said, rubbing his temples without looking at Robert.

“Is it about Hattie or is it about your wife, Ray?”

“Well, Irene’s been going to that New Hope Village Church. She even said it helped grow in her faith. However, she seems like a religious nut case, always saying that Jesus was going to come back to take His people away. The Rapture, she calls it. Robert, remember how you came over to my house about a year ago and you’ve overheard the conversation between Irene and me? You heard her say that Jesus was coming back to take believers away.”

“Yes, I remember that. You’ve invited me over.”

“That’s right. Even my son Raymie has been going to church with her. He says he’s found Jesus, but I’m not so sure about it all.  My daughter Chloe, who’s in her junior year at Stanford, well, she and Irene have slowly grown apart, causing Chloe to drop out of church altogether. Now she’s studying at Stanford, she nearly broke all ties with us, hardly ever visits except on holidays.”

“Hmm, it happens. My mom has talked about the same thing- the Rapture, I mean. Even my roommate Marc is a religious nut, often talking about the Rapture. I’ve often heard about it, as I was raised going to church and all. But now, it’s all just talk, right? I mean, we’ve got planes to fly and lives to live down here.”

“What would you do if someone you cared about started talking like that?”

“I don’t know, Ray. Maybe I’d listen. Doesn’t mean I’d believe it. I was dragged to church every Sunday until I graduated from high school and started pursuing aviation. It wasn’t forced on me, but it was expected—like eating your vegetables, which I love, don’t get me wrong. My parents are sincere believers, and they raised us with values that kept us out of trouble. But when I started flying, I saw firsthand how people lived without faith—successful, happy, no different than anyone else. Doctors, politicians, engineers—they weren’t praying for miracles to land a plane safely. We rely on systems, training, and technology. Faith feels like an unnecessary crutch when you’ve got functioning instruments.”

Rayford nodded. He believed in rules, systems, laws, patterns, things you could see and feel and hear and touch. If God was part of all that, OK. A higher power, a loving being, a force behind the laws of nature, fine. Let’s sing about it, pray about it, feel good about our ability to be kind to others, and go about our business. Now hearing Robert’s dismissiveness was oddly comforting. It was easier to keep dismissing faith when Robert did it too.

Then the first officer stirred, stretching stiffly in his seat. Chris was an earthy, down-home kind of guy that Rayford and Robert both enjoyed chatting with. Robert have heard from his own three youngest siblings about Chris’s two young sons, Jared and Jay whom he often liked to talk about. Rayford and Chris had flown a good bit together and had even been through a dangerous incident together, but Rayford had to admit that they had never bonded to the point where Rayford even knew where that accent had come from. Not quite Southern. But country. Could have been southern Indiana or even Oklahoma. Robert enjoyed Rayford and Chris’s camaraderie.

Chris was an ambitious guy. Rayford couldn’t figure it. He would’ve thought a guy who had his sights set on the top job would do everything in his power to show everybody he was dead serious and committed to it. If Chris ever made it to captain, perhaps Robert would be his first officer. Rayford knew Robert was ambitious too, but he liked the young man—not just because Robert was eager to learn and didn’t try to hide it, but mostly because he wasn’t afraid to tell Rayford exactly what he thought. Even when Rayford didn’t ask, Robert would offer his two cents—cynical, skeptical, practical—as if sparing Rayford from wasting energy on things that didn’t matter.

"Hey, I couldn’t help but hear you two talking. What is it, Ray? Hattie is gorgeous, even if she is 15 years younger and even if you are married”, Chris said, stretching his arms behind his head.

“Yeah, well before you go off the deep end with some crazy idea, as I was just telling Robert here, the one I’m married to, well, she's pushing the edge with her latest kick”, Rayford said, rubbing his forehead, his fingers pressing into the skin like he was trying to erase a headache.

“What’s that?”

“Does your wife go to church, Chris?”

“No. Though Carolyn’s  been letting our two boys, Jared and Jay, go to this youth school group at New Hope Village Church—the same one your Irene attends, Rayford. Robert, you ever been?”

“Yes, that’s the same church I went to when I was a little boy. My three youngest siblings attend the same youth group as your sons and even go to school with them. If I remember correctly, Jared is 17 and a senior and Jay is 13 and in the eighth grade. Samuel, who is also 17 and a senior, and Aneuein, who is 15 and a sophomore, attend Prospect High School with Jared. Mary’s 13 and in the eighth grade, and attends Lincoln Middle School with Jay.”

“Oh, yes. Jay’s mentioned that Mary doesn’t say much, though. She must be pretty shy if she’s that quiet.”

“She’s quieter these days and actually insecure about herself. She’s small, 4’8, which makes her shorter than the average eighth grader. She holds on to a pink teddy bear she’s had since she was 3. She named the bear Rosie, and still sleeps with it every night.”

“Hmm, being small can be rough. But hey, she’ll grow, especially if she’s only thirteen. And Aneurin? How’s he handling high school?”

“He’s adjusting, gets good grades and is athletic. Although he’s been hanging with kids our mom calls ‘the evil influences’— drugs, smoking, and drinking. He still goes to church and youth group. He’s kind of straddling two worlds right now.”

“Ah. The classic ‘church on Sunday, keg stand on Saturday’ routine. Seen that before.”

“So does your wife go to church, too?”, Rayford asked Chris, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

“Nah. Jared has a driver’s license so he drives himself and Jay there. I think Carolyn’s enjoying it because the guys are out of the house that much more and she still knows where they're at. They seemed to enjoy the youth pastor—what's his name? Jordan?”

“Yes, Jordan. I actually knew him before he became youth pastor,” Robert said, leaning back in his seat with a dry chuckle. “He used to volunteer in the church nursery and even babysat my younger siblings and me often. Great guy, though I think Mary was attached to him the most. As an infant, she’d reach for him whenever he walked into our house or whenever Mom or Dad dropped her off in the nursery. Now he’s a youth pastor and he’s engaging with teens about faith and scripture— even all that end-times stuff that even my roommate Marc’s been obsessed with.”

“Well, easy for you to say, Robert. You’re not married. You don’t have a wife going on and on about church stuff or even the Rapture. Though I suppose having a roommate who’s into prophecy isn’t much better, is it?”, Rayford said, massaging his temples again.

“No, it’s not. Attending felt more like performing rituals without meaning behind them. Like checking boxes to please my parents.”

Rayford and Chris exchanged glances—Robert felt it—that subtle smirk adults reserve for young men who think they've cracked life's code. Robert would often look at the horizon. He thought that the most exciting part about the international trips was that there were new places to visit. He loved flying internationally. The thrill of traveling the globe was unmatched. Yet this flight, Robert’s cynicism was a shield against the unease Pastor Billings’ sermons had planted in him.

*

Aneurin Burton, the second youngest of Carl and Donna with dark hair, had been raised going to church along with Robert, Oliver, Elain, Samuel and Mary. He had enjoyed it as a kid. He would even get excited about going to Sunday School, Wednesday night church and even Vacation Bible School during the summer. There was a time that when Aneurin turned 10, Carl gave him his first passport, like what he had previously done with his 4 older siblings, and even took him on a national trip to Czech later in the summer, where he was a covering a story for the Global Weekly Magazine.

"Hey, thank you for taking me with you on this trip, Dad", said Aneurin, his voice filled with excitement as he looked out of the airplane window, watching the world shrink below them.

"You're welcome, buddy", Carl said, smiling at his son's enthusiasm. "It's important that you understand the world outside of Chicago. There's so much more out there, and traveling is a great way to learn and grow."

The city of Prague sprawled out beneath them as the plane touched down on the runway. Aneurin’s heart raced as he thought of all the adventures that awaited them. He watched as his dad went about his journalist duties, eagerly taking notes and snapping photos of everything around them. The culture was vastly different from what he was used to, but he felt a strange sense of belonging in the midst of the unfamiliarity, and he enjoyed his first international trip with Carl. At that time, he still enjoyed going to church. He was a curious kid, always asking questions about God and the world around him. Carl would patiently explain the answers, weaving in tales of his own faith journey and the miracles he'd witnessed in his life as a journalist.

However, about two years later, when Aneurin turned 12, he started to hang out with a group of friends that wanted to do their own thing on weekends, which rarely involved church. His curiosity shifted from the divine to the secular, and he found himself drifting away from the spiritual life he once cherished. Once he socialized with them, he joined in. He was still a good student and got good grades and was athletic, but his behavior was causing his parents to worry.

There was even a time that Aneurin would attend church. As usual, Pastor Vernon Billings was speaking of "the Rapture" and end times. He urged the congregation to be ready, to examined themselves, and to be prayer for those who may not be ready. Aneurin thought it just didn't make sense. Jesus would come back to take away His people and it would all happened in an instant? He had heard it so much, but he had his own plans for life. He wanted to have fun, live his teenage years to the fullest, and not be bogged down by rules and regulations from the Bible. It was as if he had outgrown it.

Now about 3 years later, 15 year old Aneurin was drifting on a dangerous path. He began to do drugs, smoke, and drink. Even his female friends were beginning to dress in a way that drew attention, much to Donna’s disapproval, as she had called his new friends the "evil influences." They were the ones who had introduced him to the darker side of life, and she feared they would lead him down a dangerous path. He was a “wild guy” as other kids at Prospect High School called him. He still got good grades, was still athletic, and still attended youth group at church occasionally to please his parents. Yet church was making him feel uncomfortable. Each Sunday sermon seemed to tug at him—Pastor Billings talking about the Rapture, sin, repentance, and the emptiness of worldly pleasures—but he’d shake it off by Monday, diving back into his reckless habits.

One night, Aneurin came home in his drunken state and Donna smelled the alcohol on him as soon as he stepped inside the house. She reached out to touch his shoulder—her fingers pressing just slightly too hard—and he shrugged her off before she could say anything, rolling his eyes as he stumbled past her toward the stairs. The boys shared a room, and when Robert and Oliver went out on their own, Samuel and Aneurin had the room to themselves, and Robert and Oliver stayed there during holidays.

"What's got into you?", asked Donna, "You don't love Jesus anymore?"

How am I supposed to answer that? Aneurin thought to himself. He may have liked church as a child. But loving Jesus? That never occurred to him.

"I don't know, mom", Aneurin said, avoiding her gaze.

“I'm concerned about the choices you've been making," Donna said, her voice filled with both love and a hint of sadness. "I know it's tough to fit in, but those friends are not leading you down the right path. I know no one is perfect, but we need to strive to be like Jesus."

"Perhaps I will when I grow up", said Aneurin, trying to appease his mother. "But right now, I need to live my life.”

It wasn't she wanted to hear. Afterwards, she left the room with a heavy sigh, her eyes filled with unshed tears. Aneurin knew he was breaking her heart, but he just couldn’t bring himself to care anymore.

"Can I ask you something, Aneurin?", asked Samuel one evening as they lay in bed.

"What is it now, Samuel?", asked Aneurin, rolling his eyes in the darkness. He knew his brother was going to start one of his religious speeches again.

"Well, you're still a Christian, aren't you? Were you ever?"

"Sure I am! Why do you ask?"

“Why is that you don't act like one?"

"I am just as much as a Christian as you are!"

“You’ve been doing things that aren’t exactly Christian, Aneurin. As your older brother, I just want you to think about it, that’s all.”

Aneurin rolled his eyes again and swore under his breath. He was glad that Donna didn't hear it and he was pretty sure Samuel didn't either. And because of his hanging out with the crowd, he stopped going to church regularly, except for when his parents would ask him to go. He knew his mom had noticed the change in him, but he didn't care.

Aneurin had heard so many sermons about Jesus coming to rapture His church, but he had his own plans for life. He wanted to have fun, live his teenage years to the fullest, and not be bogged down by rules and regulations from the Bible.

“You don't know how much time you have", said Carl, his voice stern but filled with love. "You can't keep living like this and expect everything to work out. You need to get right with God, son."

"I have all the time in the world", said Aneurin with a smug smile, "God isn't going to just pull the plug like that.”

Donna cried in the master bedroom, her heart aching for her son's lost innocence. Carl joined her, his own eyes filled with sadness and concern. If they had any control over him, it was by grounding him for a week. He now couldn't go anywhere without their knowing or even go to hang out with his friends or that if he went out, he would have to be home by a certain time. Though there were nights that he would sneak out anyways. There were even times he broke curfew, and would come in the backdoor, hoping his parents wouldn't hear.

That day, after dinner, Aneurin was getting ready to head out. He put on his leather jacket and ruffled his dark blond hair in front of the hallway mirror. Samuel looked up from his math homework at the kitchen table. "Going to meet those guys again?" Samuel asked. His eyes stayed fixed on Aneurin’s face.

“I’m actually going to the library. I….I’ve got to do some research,” Aneurin said, avoiding Samuel’s gaze as he tugged at the frayed cuff of his jacket.

“Suit yourself, man.”

Aneurin left, and although he went to the library, he had no intention of studying. He was out in the alleyway with his friends, smoking and drinking. He overheard his friends talking about their plans for the weekend—parties and more reckless behavior—but his thoughts drifted to Samuel’s words. *Why don’t you act like one?* The question gnawed at him, but he drowned it out with another swig from the bottle. He chewed some nicotine gum to mask the smell, grimacing at the bitter taste. Then he went inside the library and chewed on a spearmint gum to mask the smell of alcohol on his breath, knowing his parents would smell it if he came home drunk again. He went inside the lounge area, plopping onto a couch with a sigh. His head spun slightly, the room tilting as he dozed off.

Chapter 3

*

Josiah Eliraz had been raised in a Pakistani-Jewish family in Mount Prospect before going to nursing school in Chicago. The Elirazes, although not the first Jews to live in the Mount Prospect neighborhood, they were among the first Pakistani-Americans to settle in the area. Josiah was tall and had dark hair, with an olive complexion, and was very fluent in English, Hebrew, and Urdu.

His father, Tobias, owned a business in Chicago, the Eliraz Industry that specialized in security systems and exported goods to different countries, and was wealthy. His mother, Hilda, never had to work outside the home. His oldest brother Ivan worked in the family business and would eventually take over once their father was ready to retire, and was married to Sienna with 3 children, 2 boys and 1 girl. An older brother and sister Caleb was a a pilot who was married to Rhoda, and Phoebe moved to Israel after graduating from high school and was married to Silas Baurchus who worked for the Mossad. A younger brother Nathan was in his senior year at Northwestern Chicago University and younger sister Addi was a sophomore at the University of South Chicago.

Just after graduation from Prospect High School, Josiah joined the US Marine Corps as a medic, stationed in Pakistan—a nod to his heritage- then returned home to Chicago, where he got into nursing school with a military scholarship. After earning his nursing license, Josiah moved out of his parents' home in Mount Prospect and got an apartment in Chicago, closer to the Arlington Heights Hospital where he worked as a registered nurse. Although only 23 years old, the hospital had quickly recognized his potential and he was often put in charge of his floor, even though he had only been working there for six months.

He participated in the celebration of Rosh Hannah, Purim, Passover, Hanukkah, and other Jewish holidays. As Pakistan is primarily a Muslim country, Pakistani Jews were in the minority, and even Pakistani-Americans were in the minority in Mount Prospect and Chicago. Their roots traced back to the Jewish community in Karachi, Pakistan, where both his father and mother’s ancestors had lived for generations before emigrating to the United States. When Josiah was 13, there was a group of Jews that would gathered together at a rally of some sort, and a pastor came to speak.

"If I can have your attention, please", said the pastor, "I am well aware you are Jewish, still waiting for your Messiah. Well, let me say He has already come."

The pastor went through the prophecies of the Old Testament, and how it was all leading to Jesus as the Messiah. He explained how Jesus had fulfilled all the prophecies. The words of the pastor didn’t just fall on deaf ears; they resonated with Hilda and Tobias. They felt a stirring in their hearts, something that was strange and yet familiar. They had never heard about Jesus like this before, and it was as if a veil had been lifted from their eyes. They decided to investigate further, and what they found was a revelation that shook their world.

"If you are willing to accept Jesus as your Messiah", said the pastor, "Pray with me."

The pastor was leading in the prayer. Josiah looked around and saw his parents bowing their heads in prayer. He wondered if they could be praying along with the pastor. Then he saw then 11 year old Nathan and then 9 year old Addi bowing in prayer as well. He wondered what could this be about. It was all too much for him to comprehend at the moment.

Soon after the pastor led the prayer, the Jewish gathering dispersed. Josiah came home after about an hour or so and saw his parents sitting in the living room, holding Bibles, looking happier than he had seen them in a long time.

"What happened to you?", he asked, "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Would you believe we have become Christians tonight?", asked Tobias with a smile that seemed to light up the room.

Josiah blinked, trying to process the words he had just heard. "What do you mean, Dad?"

"We've accepted Jesus as our Lord and Savior, son," Hilda said. "He is the promised Messiah."

Josiah felt a mix of confusion and anger. "What about our traditions? Our family heritage?" he protested, feeling the ground shift beneath him.

"Josiah,", Tobias, said gently, "our heritage is important, but so is truth. And we've found that in Jesus. He is the fulfillment of what we've been waiting for."

"I've practiced Judaism since I was a boy", said Josiah, "Why would I want to change that?"

"It's not about changing who you are, son," replied his father, his tone gentle yet firm. "It's about filling the emptiness inside you with the love and salvation that only Jesus can provide.".

"You're telling me that Jesus is the Jewish savior? That's ridiculous. And what about the prophecies of the Messiah? The one who will restore Israel?"

"We'll let God work on you, Josiah", said Hilda, giving him a warm smile that seemed to hold a hint of hope. "Pray and seek the truth with an open heart."

Josiah went into the family room, and saw Nathan and Addi sitting on the couch, their faces filled with the same excitement and peace as their parents. They looked up at him with hope in their eyes, holding their own Bibles.

"Is this true?", asked Josiah, his voice barely above a whisper. "You guys believe in Jesus now?"

Nathan nodded, his eyes glowing with a newfound faith. "Yes, we do. And it's amazing, Josiah. You should try it. Give it a chance."

Josiah rolled his eyes, feeling like an outsider in his own home. "This is nonsense. Why can't you guys just stick to what we've always known?"

"Because we've found something more, something real," Addi said, her voice earnest. "Jesus is the true Messiah, and He loves you too, Josiah.”

“We’re Jewish. Why should we believe in some guy that got killed a couple thousand years ago?”

“Yes, Jesus was killed, but He also rose again, and He’s coming back for all who believe in Him, no matter their background," said Nathan, his voice filled with conviction. "We can’t ignore the truth just because it’s not what we’ve always known."

Just then, then 17 year old Caleb and 15 year old Phoebe, came into the room, their faces tight with confusion.

“What’s going on here?”, Caleb asked, seeing Nathan and Addi clutching unfamiliar Bibles.

“Caleb, Phoebe, we’ve found the Messiah,” Nathan said, his voice filled with excitement.

“You really believe that?”, asked Phoebe, her voice sharp with disbelief.

“Yes, and you better do it, too, Phoebe”, Addi piped up, clutching her Bible like a prized possession. “Jesus isn’t just for us Jews—He’s for everyone, but He came to us first.”

"Hey, if you want to believe that stuff about Jesus being the Messiah, that's your own business", said Josiah, "Just leave me out of it, okay?”

The conversation ended with a tense silence, leaving the family divided by their beliefs. Yet, as the days turned into weeks, the unspoken tension grew thicker. Even when his parents, oldest brother Ivan, and younger brother and sister Nathan and Addi, converted to Christianity, Josiah was still set in his ways on practicing the Jewish religion. Even up until graduation, the US Marine Corps stationed in Pakistan and nursing school, and nursing school, then becoming a registered nurse, he was still active in the Jewish synagogue. Caleb was also set in his Judaism ways, even after he married Rhoda, who was Jewish as well. Phoebe remained Jewish, and moved to Israel and married Silas, who was Jewish. Ivan and Sienna were Christians, and attended church with their 3 children, and Nathan and Addi were also Christians and attended church. Tobias and Hilda attended church and still participated in Jewish celebrations, though they now saw them through the lens of Christianity.

Josiah had been asked to work double shift in the hospital’s emergency unit since the nurse manager called in sick. He didn’t mind – the chaos of the ER suited his restless thoughts. Around midnight, he was stitching up a drunk college kid who kept slurring about a campus party gone wrong when a commotion erupted near the ambulance bay. Paramedics wheeled in a gurney carrying a pale, shivering teen whose thin arms were bruised purple and blue. Josiah handed off his patient to another nurse and moved closer, his training overriding his exhaustion.

Josiah decided to take a rest in the nurse’s lounge, sinking into a worn vinyl chair. The hum of fluorescent lights blended with distant intercom announcements—a fractured lullaby. He closed his eyes, mentally replaying his father’s words about Jesus fulfilling Messianic prophecies. The argument felt like a splinter he couldn’t extract, buried deep beneath years of synagogue visits and Passover seders. Why did their conversion still unsettle him after all this time?

*

Santiago Perez and his family were among the first Hispanics to live in the Mount Prospect Neighborhood. He is Puerto Rican and was fluent in English and Spanish. His father, Horatio was a professor of literature at a college in Chicago and his mother, Amaya, worked as a waitress in a restaurant in the inner city of Chicago. He had to admit that his little brother and sister, Edaurdo and Rosa were good kids. Though they sure got on his nerves sometimes.

There were other Hispanics or Latinos at school, though not many. He became active in sports, playing soccer, basketball, and softball in grade school. When he got into middle school, he started playing football. His family visited either from Puerto Rico or Miami every summer, and he looked forward to those visits. Even though they lived in Mount Prospect, the Perez family attended a Spanish church in Chicago where they stayed with family for the weekend and came home in Mount Prospect Sunday afternoon. He started going to youth group at New Hope Village Church, since it was closer to him. It was a place where he could be himself without the pressure of school or his family's expectations.

Santiago even began to wonder why his namesake. Horatio often told him that his name was a combination of "saint" and "Iago", which is a Portuguese and Spanish form of "James" and "Jacob." It was a strong name, a name of faith and heritage. Yet, Santiago felt as though he was living in the shadows of his name's meaning. He was not as devout as his family believed him to be.

He liked going to a Spanish church in Chicago and going to Youth Group in Mount Prospect. He believed there was a God out there, and that Jesus was His Son who died for sins, but he didn't see how it mattered in his life. He was a good kid, and he didn't do drugs, smoke, or drink—his parents would kill him if he did—but he didn't see the point in praying or reading the Bible every day.

"Jesus is wonderful", said Amaya, "Aren't you glad we serve a wonderful God?"

"Oh si,, we do", said Santiago, "I just don't know if it's real."

"Well, we're praying for you, Santiago, God will get your attention one day."

"Perhaps He will."

Now, at 13 years old, Santiago was athletic and was the jock at school. You name the sport, he enjoyed it and was good at it and played with all his might. He was the fastest runner, the highest jumper, the best hitter and thrower in baseball, the widest receiver in football and the sharpest shooter in basketball. Not only that, but he was academically active as well, participating in the science club and the school's debate team. So as the jock, the scholar and the social butterfly, he was very popular at school. Even now, he was going through change in mind and body, as puberty had settled in. His voice was deepening, his shoulders broadening, his arms thickening. His muscles were well defined, his jawline sharpening, his dark eyes gleaming. A lot of girls were crazy about him, and would often show off his muscles and athleticism to impress them. He enjoyed the attention he received, especially from girls, and because of this, he felt powerful and felt that he didn’t need religion to define him.

Recently, pride got into Santiago. His prowess in sports and academics, coupled with the admiration he received, inflated his ego. He became proud and boastful of his accomplishments and status. A lot of girls swooned over him, a lot of guys wanted to be him, and a lot of adults praised his achievements. He thrived on the attention, addicted to the validation that came with being the best.

It was one thing to go to a Spanish church in Chicago and youth group at New Hope Village Church. He even invited his friends from school to youth group. Eduardo and Rosa would often get excited about going to Sunday School as well. His parents would often tell him that he was doing the right thing by inviting his friends to church and youth group. But Santiago wasn't sure if he was doing it for the right reasons. He liked the attention he got from his friends, the way they looked up to him, the way the girls smiled at him when he walked into the youth group room. He liked being the center of attention, the one everyone turned to when there was a game or a competition.

On the weekends, other than church, Horatio, Santiago and Eduardo would go to the Chicago White Sox or the Chicago Cubs games while Amaya and Rosa would stay home and sew. It was a family tradition. Santiago loved the smell of the hotdogs, the roar of the crowd, the crack of the bat, and the way the stadium lights made the field glow like a stage.

"Now don't forget", Amaya would often said, "You were raised going to church. We've dedicated you and your little brother and sister to the LORD."

Santiago knew she was right. He had been dedicated when he was an infant at a church. Then Eduardo then Rosa were. He had to admit he liked church a lot and going to youth group at New Hope Village Church. He just didn’t know if he believed all the stuff they said in church or youth group. He just went along with it because his parents expected him to, and it was tradition.

At a Spanish Church in Chicago, the pastor was speaking about Jesus coming to take His believers away into Heaven. He even said it would all happened in an instant.

"This is going to be a great day for us", said the pastor, "But a sad one for unbelievers or those who may not be ready. How important it is to examine our faith and be ready as well to be prayer for those who may not be ready."

Santiago heard about this. He learned about it in Youth Group at New Hope Village Church. Pastor Jordan mentioned this, as well as Pastor Ruiz at the Spanish church in Chicago. But he didn’t know what to think about it. He never gave it much thought. The last thing he wanted to think about was Jesus coming back when he had a football game next week and a science fair project to finish.

He knew his mother was worried for him. Though his parents were proud of his achievements—his grades, his athleticism, his easy charm—he could tell Amaya studied him sometimes, her lips pressed into a thin line when she thought he wasn’t looking.

Santiago was proud of his athleticism, maybe too proud. In front of his friends, he would show off, lifting weights effortlessly, doing push-ups one-handed, and making basketball shots from half-court without breaking a sweat. His teammates cheered him on, and the girls giggled and blushed when he winked at them. He drank in the admiration like water in a desert.

Then that night, Santiago had helped tuck in Eduardo and Rosa into bed and had read a Bible story with them as his mother requested. He listened to Eduardo's innocent prayers, Rosa's soft voice joining in, and wondered—not for the first time—why their faith felt so effortless while his own sat like a weight in his chest. He turned off the lights, and quietly closed the door behind him. He was the jock and proud of it, but somehow, in that moment, he felt like he was missing something. Was he too arrogant? Was he too proud? Was he too blind to see what his parents saw? He didn't know. He didn't want to think about it.

Chapter 4

*****

Lucille Moise grew up in Mount Prospect until she graduated from Prospect High School. She began attending the University of South Chicago for general studies, hoping to find a career path that suited her free-spirited nature. She was 5’7 and had reddish brown hair that fell just past her shoulders and was a social butterfly. She was staying at a dorm near the university, which allowed her to focus on her studies without the distraction of her family's strict religious views.

Her parents were devout Christians, but their constant pressure to follow in their footsteps had pushed her away from the church. She hardly visited, except during holidays, when it was expected of her. Her brother Harold and sister Cheryl went to Prospect High School, and were active in the YMCA and YWCA.

Lucille’s favorite color was turquoise, and although a bit of a girly-girl, she had bit of a tomboy streak— she enjoyed tea parties and dress-up with Cheryl, but could also hold her own shooting hoops with Harold. Her mother often refer to her as having a bit of a balance— a girly-girl with a tomboy side. And there wasn’t anything wrong with that.

Lucille attended New Hope Village Church when she was a little girl, but religion never occurred to her as something that could offer her the excitement and adventure she craved. Pastor Billings had talked a lot about the Rapture, but to her, it was just another one of those weird, abstract concepts that didn’t fit into her concrete worldview. Plus, with her newfound independence at college, she had a whole new world to explore.

Three years later, when Lucille and her roommate Madeline were 21 years old and in their senior year of college, Elain and Addi, who were 19 and in their sophomore year who had been staying at a dorm across the hall from them for a year, invited them to a church service and Bible study at a church close by the university.

"I don't know", said Lucille, "I haven't been to church since I was a little girl."

"Come on, Lucille, Madeline”, Elain said, her eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. "You've gotta come with us to church this weekend.”

Lucille leaned against her dorm room doorframe, arms crossed. “Look, I appreciate the invite, but Pastor Billings back home talked about the Rapture enough to last me a lifetime. It’s all... a bit much. Do you believe in the Rapture? I’ve heard there’s different ideas on the timing, you know, like Pre-Tribulation or Mid-Tribulation or Post-Tribulation.” She paused, her brow furrowed. “I mean, how do you even know which one’s right?”

“Both of us personally believe in a pre-tribulation rapture,”Addi replied softly, twisting a strand of dark hair around her finger. “But honestly? The ‘when’ matters less than the ‘who.’ Jesus Himself said that no ones knows the day or hour. Not even the angels know or even Jesus Himself knows. Only the Father knows. I was raised Jewish, but I have embraced Jesus as the Messiah who came and will come again.”

“Pastor Billings actually said the same thing- no one knows the day or hour. But he seemed pretty convinced it’d be soon.”

“And we believe it will be sooner than later”, Elain added, her voice earnest. “But Pastor Billings also said the most important thing is being ready, no matter when it happens. That’s why we’re inviting you both.”

“Thank you. I’ll think about it”, Lucille said, closing her dorm door softly. She leaned against the wood, staring at the peeling paint on her ceiling. Madeline flipped through a fashion magazine on her bed, humming absently. Outside, Chicago’s evening traffic pulsed like a distant heartbeat.

While Lucille and Madeline weren’t into the religious scene, they did enjoy hanging out with the two sophomore girls, and they’d go to the mall, see a movie, or grab a bite to eat at their favorite restaurant. But when Sunday rolled around, Elain and Addi would be out the door before dawn to attend their early morning service at the church. It was like nothing could keep them from going, not even the allure of sleeping in on a weekend.

Lucille couldn’t wrap her head around it. What was so special about church? She remembered Pastor Billings at New Hope Village Church back home, his sermons filled with warnings about the Rapture and end times. It was all so intense and serious. But Elain and Addi seemed genuinely happy and at peace. They weren’t pushy or judgmental; they just lived their faith quietly. It was confusing. How could something that seemed so restrictive bring them such joy?

Sometimes, they would have Bible studies at the dorm, which intrigued Lucille. She had heard about the Rapture before but never really gave it much thought. She remembered Pastor Billings mentioning it, but it was always something distant and abstract. Now, Elain and Addi spoke about it with such certainty, as if it were an imminent event. Lucille found herself listening intently, trying to understand what made them so passionate.

"I'll tell you, Lucille", said Elain, "God will get your attention one day.”

Lucille just shrugged. "I doubt it. I'm pretty good at ignoring things that don't fit my schedule."

Addi looked at her with a knowing smile. "You might be surprised," she said softly.

Lucille often heard from her mom, who told her that she was praying for her to come back to church. She knew her mom meant well, but she just couldn't bring herself to go back to the place she had felt so suffocated. Her skepticism grew stronger with each passing day, and she found solace in her new group of friends who didn't judge her for her lack of belief.

Lucille had been reading through her sociology book in the dorm lounge, highlighting passages about cultural identity. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead—a sound she typically drowned out with music—but tonight it felt like background static to her thoughts. Across the room, Elain and Addi sat reviewing Bible study notes. She caught fragments: “prophecy,” “restoration,” and Addi’s soft murmur, “He promised He’d prepare a place for us.” Lucille clicked her pen absently, wondering how faith felt so effortless for them yet remained so elusive to her.

It was getting late, so she headed back to her dorm room. Madeline was sprawled on her bed scrolling through her phone—gold light from the screen casting shadows under her chin. Lucille laid on her own bed, staring at the ceiling. She could hear Elain and Addi giggling in the hallway—their laughter light, carefree. It was unsettling how happy they were, how untroubled. She began to doze off, but then something jolted her awake—not a noise, just a thought. What if they were right? What if it *was* all real? She fell asleep before she could answer.

****

Mary Burton, the youngest of Carl and Donna’s six children, had been raised going to church, like 5 older siblings Robert, Oliver, Elain, Samuel and Aneurin. She had light blond hair and was 4’8 with a slender frame. When she was first born, Elain was especially happy about finally having a sister, after having only 4 brothers. Mary possessed a pink teddy bear with a pink bow on its right ear named Rosie, which she cherished dearly. Rosie was Mary’s Christmas gift when she was 3, and it had been with her ever since.

When was about 5, she started doing gymnastics and ballet, and she was good at it. She even won a few competitions. She was small for her age, but she made up for it with her enthusiasm and determination. When she was 10, like her 5 older siblings, Carl gave her a passport and took her with him on one of his international trips to Croatia later that summer.

“Why do you travel a lot, Daddy?”, Mary asked, clutching Rosie tightly as she looked out the window of the plane into the city of Dubrovnik below.

“It’s part of my job, sweetie”, Carl replied, his eyes reflecting the excitement of exploration and discovery. “But remember, no matter where I go, God is always with me. He’s with you too, every single moment.”

Mary nodded, though the concept of an invisible being watching over her was something she had yet to fully comprehend. She was quite glad that she got to go one of the international trips with Carl. She had to admit that she was actually quite proud of him. After arriving home, she got into figure skating, which was a combination of her gymnastic and ballet skills. It became her escape from the tension at home and the confusion in her heart.

When Mary turned 12, although she has always been quiet she started to become quieter and more introspective. She still attended church, though she grew more skeptical about God and whether He as real. Her curiosity grew into a silent quest for understanding. She found comfort in the routines of church and the warmth of her family's faith, but the flame in her own heart was dwindling.

Now, a year later, 13 year old Mary was quieter than ever. She got her first iPhone her birthday- pink, of course. Carl even had parental controls installed, but she didn't mind. While she didn’t become cynical as Robert or rebellious as Aneurin, she did find herself drawn to questioning the existence of God. She had heard the stories from her parents and the sermons at church, but something just wasn’t clicking for her. Maybe it was Robert’s cynicism or Aneurin’s rebellion influencing her, or maybe it was her own doubts creeping in. Either way, she was struggling. She still went to church every Sunday morning and evening. She even attended youth group each week. But the words felt like distant echoes in an empty room, failing to ignite her spirit as they once had.

If there was really a God out there—some unseen force watching everything—Mary wondered why He’d let her feel so insecure. “So if God was real”, Mary asked Carl one day, “What can He do?“

”I know it’s hard for you to understand, Honey”, said Carl, “Though you’ll be amazed at what He can do. He’s done a lot in my life, and I know He will in yours, too.”

Mary had been sweet and innocent, but now she was starting to see the cracks in her parents’ faith. She went into her room, which she shared with Elain until she graduated and went to study at University of South Chicago. Elain’s favorite color was purple, and was more of a tomboy who enjoyed track and field, so her side of the room was decorated with sports trophies and medals. Mary’s favorite color was pink, and she was more of a girly-girl who enjoyed dolls and figure skating, so her side was decorated with her skating medals, ballet ribbons, dolls all line up neatly on the shelves, and doll dresses that both her paternal grandmother and maternal grandmother sewed for her dolls. Despite their differences, the sisters used to be close. Now that Elain was away in college, Mary only had Rosie to confide in.

“I believe that God will somehow find a way to get your attention”, Carl said to Mary one evening as they sat in the quiet living room. His voice was filled with the same hope that had fueled his journalistic spirit for years.

“Perhaps He will”, said Mary, her voice a whisper.

Mary continued to doubt about God and whether He was real. Did Jesus really died and rose again? Could He really save her? Was Jesus really coming back to take His followers and she wasn’t prepared for it? Her mind was filled with questions she couldn’t answer. How soon Mary would come to understand that God loved her and that Jesus died for her. She knew her mom and dad talked about it, but she just couldn’t grasp it. Her heart was filled with doubt, but she didn’t want to disappoint her family. She knew they were Christians, and they were always talking about Jesus.

That night, Mary turned her phone off, and lay in bed while clutching Rosie tightly, staring at the ceiling, wondering if God was real and if He could hear her prayers. The house was strangely quiet, so she fell fast asleep.

Chapter 5

**

Now if you are familiar with flashbacks in storytelling, you'll know they're those windows into the past that writers use to let you see what shaped a character. To understand how our main characters (Ashton, Josiah, Robert, Lucille, Everett, Jr, Aneurin, Santiago, and Mary) got to where they are now and how each moment was weaving into something larger, we need to spend a few chapters in about a year ago.

***

It was the new year, and Mary woke up at 8am, her pink pajamas rumpled and Rosie tucked securely under her arm. She came into the dining area just as Carl unfolded the newspaper, its crisp pages rustling like dry leaves. The headline screamed about Russia mobilizing troops near Turkey, but he quickly flipped it facedown.

"Morning, honey," Carl said with a warm smile, giving her a pink mug of tea with gingerbread creamer—her favorite—before she could even ask. She had tasted coffee once and it was too bitter, so she stuck with tea. As Carl was Welsh, tea was a staple.

“Morning, Daddy”, Mary said, wrapping both hands around the mug. Steam curled upward, carrying the scent of gingerbread—comforting, familiar. She leaned across the table, her eyes fixed on the upside-down newspaper. “What’s Russia doing?”

Carl hesitated, his fingers drumming the paper’s edge. “Just politics, sweetheart. Nothing for you to worry about.”

“Daddy, I’m 12, almost 13. I should at least know, right?”

Carl sighed. He had been shielding Mary from geopolitical tensions—much like having her watch something safer in the family room while he watched unsettling news in the living room—but he knew he couldn’t do it forever. He still saw her as his little girl clutching Rosie, but Mary was changing. The realization tightened his chest. "Russia's teaming with Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Uzbekistan, Turkmenistan, Tajikistan, Turkey, Ethiopia, Libya, Northern Sudan, and Iran against Israel."

“But Hamas attacked Israel a few years ago. Why would Russia care now?”, Aneurin asked, taking a bite of toast.

“Well, when Uncle Dirk was here for the Holidays, he told me about the Eden fertilizer, invented by an Israeli botanist named Dr. Chaim Rosenzweig.”

Carl proceeded to tell of his conversation with Dirk:

The den was now decorated for Christmas, with a miniature nativity scene on the desk and twinkling lights strung around the bookshelves. Dirk traced a finger along the spine of Carl's leather-bound Bible—the same one Carl had used since Princeton—before settling into the worn armchair opposite his brother.

“Carl, why did you suggest that this room would be better for our discussion?” Dirk asked quietly, his eyes scanning Carl’s face as he leaned back in the armchair.

“My daughter’s twelve, Dirk, and she’s already wrestling with enough,” Carl murmured, lowering himself into the desk chair. “But tell me—what have you found?”

“You must have heard that my friend Cameron ‘Buck’ Williams, with whom I studied at Princeton University with, is going to Israel for a January 1st cover story.”

“Ah yes. Steve Plank, the senior editor at the Global Weekly headquarters in New York City, emailed me about that. He didn’t say much though.”

Carl recounted what he remembered what Steve wrote. Buck wanted to bag a fourth, so he went to the next staff meeting with his nomination in mind: Dr. Chaim Rosenzweig of Israel, the humble chemical engineer who preferred calling himself a botanist. Buck was certain his colleagues wanted to go with an American, a pop or political star of some sort. But Rosenzweig was the only logical choice, at least in Buck’s mind. Buck had gone into the staff meeting prepared to argue for Rosenzweig and against whatever media star the others would typically champion.

He was pleasantly surprised when executive editor Steve Plank opened with, “Anybody want to nominate someone stupid, such as anyone other than the Nobel prizewinner in chemistry?”

The senior staff members looked at each other, shook their heads, and pretended to begin leaving. “Put the chairs on the wagon—the meetin’ is over,” Buck said. “Steve, I’m not angling for it, but you know I know the guy and he trusts me.”

“Not so fast, Cowboy,” a rival said, then appealed to Plank. “You letting Buck assign himself now?”

“I might,” Steve said. “And what if I do?”

“I just think this is a technical piece, a science story,” Buck’s detractor muttered. “I’d put the science writer on it.”

“And you’d put the reader to sleep,” Plank said. “C’mon, you know the writer for showcase pieces comes from this group. And this is not a science piece any more than the first one Buck did on him. This has to be told so the reader gets to know the man and understands the significance of his achievement.”

“Like that isn’t obvious. It only changed the course of history.”

“I’ll make the assignment today,” the executive editor said. “Thanks for your willingness, Buck. I assume everyone else is willing as well.” Expressions of eagerness filled the room, but Buck also heard grumbled predictions that the fair-haired boy would get the nod, and he did.

Carl had read Buck's articles and knew that he had a knack for bringing human-interest stories to life, especially when they were rooted in such profound and controversial issues. "So Dirk, as you’ve been an informant for both Buck and me, what’s the deal with this Dr. Rosenzweig?”, Carl asked, leaning forward in his desk chair.

“Oh, Carl, you might recall that Dr. Rosenzweig was named Global Weekly's Man Of The Year due to his development of The Eden Project, a new synthetic fertilizer that causes the dry Israeli deserts to become rich, fertile croplands”, Dirk said, leaning forward with his gaze sharpening , “The development of this fertilizer promises to end world famine and pushes Israel as a chief exporter of rare and henceforth expensive agricultural products; thus, the formula becomes a highly sought commodity. The enormous wealth brought by the fertilizer and related agriculture-led export boom also lands Israel in a far better bargaining position than the oil-rich Arab world in the Middle East peace process, and Israel has made peace with all immediate Arab neighbors on Israel's terms.”

Carl nodded, intrigued by the implications of such a discovery. Yet, even in the midst of it, the tension with Hamas, Palestine, Iraq, and Syria remained a concern. "And what's the political climate like over there? Is the peace as stable as it seems?"

"On the surface, yes. But we all know the Middle East. It's a delicate balance, and one misstep could lead to chaos. Plus, there are whispers of something big brewing. Buck is keen on getting the real story behind the scenes."

Carl nodded gravely. He had reported many of news, but the Middle East remained a volatile region, even with the promise of peace. But he wondered if it had any relation to the prophecy he’s been studying. If it was, then the world was indeed closer to the end times than anyone could imagine.

Then Carl came upon something alarming on his phone. A Russian delegation had come calling, clearly imagining what a license to the formula might do if put to work on their own vast tundra. Russia had become a great brooding giant with a devastated economy and regressed technology. All the nation had was military might, every spare resource invested in weaponry.

“Dirk, you think the Russians are after Rosenzweig’s formula?”, Carl asked, his voice low as he scanned the news alert. The twinkling Christmas lights suddenly felt incongruous against the gravity of the headline.

Dirk leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Who can say? But Rosenzweig’s formula is worth more than oil reserves now. If Russia gets it, they’d control global food supplies overnight. Buck’s going over there during the first week of January to interview him.”

Carl nodded. If Buck was going to Israel for the Rosenzweig piece during the first week of January, that meant it could be the first cover story of the new year. That was huge. He knew well how Global Weekly operated—their January 1st issue was always a prestige assignment. Buck landing it spoke volumes about his standing at the magazine.

“You’ve met Buck, right?”, Dirk asked, swirling the dregs of his tea.

“Yes, he’s been in my office a few times. Sharp journalist. Only 29, but he carries himself like he’s been doing this for decades. But Israel in January? That’s a powder keg waiting to blow.”

Dirk nodded grimly. “Exactly why Buck wants eyes on the ground. Rosenzweig’s formula isn’t just changing deserts; it’s shifting alliances overnight. Syria’s rattling sabers again, Hamas is furious over lost leverage, and Russia’s hovering like a vulture.”

“We’ll be sure keep an eye on the news in Israel then,” Carl murmured, setting his phone aside.

“So Buck is actually in Israel reporting on the Eden Project now?”, Samuel asked, taking a sip of tea.

“That’s right. Here’s his interview with the botanist himself.”

Then Carl pulled up the interview on the Global Weekly webpage:

Buck stayed in a military compound and met with Rosenzweig in the same kibbutz on the outskirts of Haifa where he had interviewed him a year earlier. Buck had found the wiry little man, with the Einstein thing happening with his hair, protected by security systems as complex as those for heads of state. Here was a warm, smiling, earnest-speaking man honored throughout the world and revered as royalty in his own country.

Rosenzweig himself was fascinating, of course, but it was his formula that had revolutionized Israel and changed the face of the Middle East. Irrigation was nothing new. But, as the retired professor said, all that did was “make the sand wet.” His formula, added to the water, fertilized the sand. Buck was no scientist, but he knew Rosenzweig’s formula had made Israel the richest nation on earth almost overnight. Every inch of available ground blossomed with flowers and grains, including produce never before conceivable in Israel. Flush with cash and resources, the nation made peace with her neighbors. Free trade and liberal passage allowed all who loved the nation to have access to it. What they did not have access to, however, was the formula project

Global leaders sought out Rosenzweig. Just ten days before Buck’s visit, a Russian delegation had come calling, clearly imagining what a license to the formula might do if put to work on their own vast tundra.

Russia had become a great brooding giant with a devastated economy and regressed technology. All the nation had was military might, every spare resource invested in weaponry.

“Let me tell you something, my friend,” Rosenzweig told Buck. “The Russians left here none too happy with my response. And I did not flatly refuse them. I merely told them that the rights to the formula technically belonged to the State of Israel and that I would not try to sway the government in what it chose to do with them. They will decide when they decide, and they may decide to share the formula with no one. The Russians told me they had already tried diplomatic channels to tender an offer for a license and that they had come to me only when that failed. I apologized that they had gone to all the time and expense to come to the wrong person.”

“Who else has visited you?” Buck said.

“Oh, many. Many. Most all. It has been a joy, I confess, hearing their compliments and accolades. This has been a most interesting aspect. I was most amused by a visit from the vice president of the United States himself. He wanted to honor me, to bring me to the president, to have a parade, to confer a degree, all that. He diplomatically said nothing about my owing him anything in return, but I would owe him everything; would I not? Much was said about what a friend of Israel the United States has been over the decades. And this has been true, no? How could I argue? But I pretended to see the awards and kindnesses as all for my own benefit, and I humbly turned them down. Because you see, young man, I am most humble; am I not?” The old man laughed and relayed several other stories of dignitaries who had visited and tried to charm him.

“Was anyone sincere?” Buck said. “Did anyone impress you?”

“Yes! From the most perplexing and surprising corner of the world—Romania. I do not know if he was sent or came on his own, but I suspect the latter because I believe he is the lowest-ranking official I entertained following the award. That is one of the reasons I wanted to see him. He asked for the audience himself. He did not go through typical political and protocol channels.”

Who could this Romanian be? Carl wondered. He had visited Romania once for Global Weekly, covering the Carpathian Mountains’ reforestation efforts, and his mother had even sewn a Romanian folk dress for Mary’s doll collection. The country was known for its quiet resilience—but intrigue? That was unexpected. He knew that Romania was a country that had endured centuries of oppression. He remembered that Romania was where Vlad the Impaler was from, which inspired the Dracula legend. But he also knew that Romania was a country of poets and revolutionaries. Whoever this Romanian was, he must have been intriguing enough to capture Rosenzweig’s attention.

Just then, in the living room, breaking news broke out on the smart TV. It appeared surface-to-air missiles had been launched in Israel. Was Israel under attack? Could it be? Sounds from the air overrode even the ear-rattling sirens. When the skies lit up like noon, Buck knew this was the real thing—a full-fledged air battle. He bolted from his room and ran down the corridor toward the command center.

“Stay in your quarters, civilian!” he heard more than once as he darted among ashen-faced men and women in various stages of dress. Many had emerged from their chambers pulling on uniforms and jamming on caps.

The situation room was chaotic already, and this crisis was less than a minute old. Command officers huddled around screens, chirping rapid-fire commands at techies.

One man wearing impossibly large earphones shouted, “One of our fighters has identified Russian MiG fighter-bombers.”

From another corner: “ICBMs!”

Suddenly no one was sitting. Even the experts stood at their keyboards as if staring at something they didn’t want to see. Every screen seemed lit and jammed with blips and points of light.

“It’s like Pearl Harbor!”

“It’s like 9/11!”

“We’ll be annihilated!”

“Hundreds of MiGs nearly overhead!”

“Hopelessly outnumbered!”

Then the explosions began. Sections of the building went dark. Some screens. Bombs sounded as if they had landed right outside the windows. So this was no grandstand play designed to bring Israel to her knees. There was no message for the victims. Receiving no explanation for the war machines crossing her borders and descending upon her, Israel was forced to defend herself, knowing full well that the first volley would bring about her virtual disappearance from the face of the earth. The sky was lit with orange-and-yellow balls of fire that would do little to slow a Russian offensive for which there could be no defense. It appeared to Buck that every command officer expected to be put out of his misery in seconds when the fusillade reached the ground and covered the nation.

As the night shone like day and the horrific, deafening explosions continued, the building shook and rattled and rumbled. The first Israeli missiles had taken out Russian fighters and caused ICBMs to explode too high to cause more than fire damage on the ground. The Russian warplanes slammed to the ground, digging craters and sending burning debris flying. But radar showed the Russians had clearly sent nearly every plane they had, leaving hardly anything in reserve. Thousands of planes swooped down on the tiny country’s most populated cities.

Buck’s survival instinct was on full throttle. He crouched beneath a console, surprised by the urge to sob. This was not at all what he had expected war to sound like, to look like. He had imagined himself peeking at the action from a safe perch, recording the drama in his mind.

The sky was afire. Jets screamed over the din of the inferno, and exploding missiles sent more showers of flame into the air. The sky was lit with orange-and-yellow balls of fire that would do little to slow a Russian offensive for which there could be no defense. It appeared to Buck that every command officer expected to be put out of his misery in seconds when the fusillade reached the ground and covered the nation.

Buck knew the end was near. There was no escape. Some personnel actually left their posts screaming, and their commanders did not try to stop them. Even senior officers dived under equipment and covered their ears.

As the night shone like day and the horrific, deafening explosions continued, the building shook and rattled and rumbled.

“What’s happening, Daddy?”, Mary asked, her voice trembling as she clutched Rosie tight against her chest.

Carl whispered a prayer, the words barely audible beneath the reporter’s frantic narration. Beside him, Robert stood frozen, coffee mug forgotten in his hand. The dark liquid sloshed against the ceramic rim as his knuckles whitened. Outside, snow continued falling—thick, sound-muffling flakes that made the world feel distant and unreal.

Buck knew beyond a doubt that he would die, and he wondered why he had never married. Whether there would be remnants of his body for his father or brother to identify. Was there a God? Would death be the end? Then chunks of ice and hailstones as big as golf balls forced Buck to cover his head with his jacket as the earth shook and resounded, throwing him to the ground. Face down in the freezing shards, he felt rain wash over him. Suddenly the only sound was the fire in the sky, and it began to fade as it drifted lower. After ten minutes of thunderous roaring, the fire dissipated, and scattered balls of flame flickered on the ground. The firelight disappeared as quickly as it had come. Stillness settled over the land. As clouds of smoke wafted away on a gentle breeze, the night sky reappeared in its blue-blackness and stars shone peacefully as if nothing had gone awry. Buck turned back to the building, his muddy leather jacket in his fist. The doorknob was still hot, and inside, military leaders wept and shuddered. The radio was alive with reports from Israeli pilots. They had not been able to get airborne in time to do anything but watch as the entire Russian air offensive seemed to destroy itself. Miraculously, not one casualty was reported in all of Israel.

“Did you see that? Chunks of ice fell from the sky!” Samuel yelled, pointing at the TV as Buck Williams rose unsteadily from the rubble.

“What do you think that’s all about?”, Aneurin asked, pointing at the TV as Buck Williams rose unsteadily from rubble glistening with hailstones.

“Maybe some supernova, right?”, Mary said, clutching Rosie tighter as the TV showed Buck brushing ice shards from his shoulders—chunks the size of golf balls littering the ground like spilled marbles.

Carl knew well what it was- a fulfillment of Ezekiel’s prophecy, as Pastor Billings had preached. God had protected Israel supernaturally, just as promised. He and Donna said a silent prayer of thanks, relief thick in their throats.

Chapter 6

*

"Can you believe Russia attacked Israel?", asked a doctor at a hospital at Arlington Heights to one of his colleagues.

"My people have always had enemies", said Josiah, "Over 6 million Jews were killed in the Holocaust. When the Communists took over Russian, they've oppressed the Russian Jews. Even Pakistani Jews had their own synagogue burned down."

Josiah, who was Pakistani Jew, knew well that antisemitism had roots deeper than politics. He leaned against the nurse's station countertop, knuckles white where he gripped the edge. He got out his phone and dialed Phoebe’s number, as she lived in Israel. His heart hammered against his ribs as he waited—one ring, two—before Phoebe answered, voice trembling but alive. "Josiah?”

“Phoebe, Israel has been attacked. Are you and Silas okay?” Josiah’s voice cracked on the last word, his pulse pounding in his ears louder than the hospital’s PA system.

“We’re fine. It was chaos until the chunks of ice hit,” Phoebe said, her exhale crackling over the line. “Silas saw it—the sky just...rained fire and hail.”

“Yes, I saw it on the news. Pretty unbelievable stuff, isn’t it?”

Josiah was relieved that his older sister and brother in law were safe, but something else gnawed at him—those hailstones. He'd heard prophecies before, muttered by his Messianic Jewish parents during tense Shabbat dinners. Ezekiel 38:22 flashed in his mind: "I will rain down...hailstones and burning sulfur..."

“Josiah, remember when our grandparents told us when Israel became a nation again in 1948?”, Phoebe’s voice trembled through the phone.

“Yes, I do. Some of my co-workers at the hospital said that it was a fulfillment of Ezekiel 37—the dry bones prophecy,” Josiah murmured, his fingers tightening around his phone.

“Well, some are saying that this was a fulfillment of Ezekiel 38 and 39, but I don’t know what to believe.”

For a Jewish man, Josiah knew this historical account well; however, he never imagined witnessing something akin to its fulfillment centuries later. His gaze drifted to the hospital window where snow still fell silently, obscuring the parking lot lights—a peaceful contradiction to the devastation broadcasted moments ago.

Phoebe thanked Josiah for calling to check on her, her voice steadier now but threaded with exhaustion. After hanging up, Josiah made himself some tea in the hospital break room. He carefully poured boiling water over the Earl Grey leaves, inhaling the sharp bergamot scent as steam curled upward—a small ritual to steady his hands. As he never liked coffee, tea was always his beverage of choice. Outside, the parking lot lamps cast long, wavering shadows through the still-falling snow, transforming slush into glittering patches under sodium lights. A passing ambulance’s siren wailed briefly before fading into the muffled quiet. Josiah had always liked tea, and since he was Pakistani-Jew, tea was a staple in the house. Though Tobias drank coffee on a regular basis, Josiah always preferred tea.

**

Samuel came upon the article written by Buck about Russians air strikes in Israel on the Global Weekly website. Although there were still physical copies of the news magazine, the company had created a webpage in the 2010’s to keep up with the Internet Age.

Was this some sort of a cruel joke? Sure, the first Israeli missiles had taken out Russian fighters and caused missiles to explode too high to cause more than fire damage on the ground. But what had happened to the rest of the Russian air corps? Radar showed they had clearly sent nearly every plane they had, leaving hardly anything in reserve for defense. Miraculously, not one casualty was reported in all of Israel. Otherwise Buck might have believed some mysterious malfunction had caused missile and plane to destroy each other. But witnesses reported that it had been a firestorm, along with rain and hail and an earthquake, that consumed the entire offensive effort.

Had it been a divinely appointed meteor shower? Perhaps. But what accounted for thousands of chunks of burning, twisted, molten steel smashing to the ground in Haifa, Jerusalem, Tel Aviv, Jericho, even Bethlehem—leveling ancient walls but not so much as scratching one living creature? Daylight revealed the carnage and exposed Russia’s secret alliance with Middle Eastern nations, primarily Ethiopia, Libya, and Iran.

Samuel knew that Hamas attacked Israel in 2023, but this was different. This was Russia—a superpower—launching a full-scale assault, only to be obliterated overnight. He clicked through Buck Williams' photos: twisted MiG carcasses embedded in hail-cratered earth, molten steel frozen mid-drip like modern-art sculptures of divine wrath.

School would be resuming, and Samuel wondered what his junior class might think of it all. Would the teachers make it part of their lessons? He leaned closer to his laptop, the glow casting shadows across his face as he scrolled through the Global Weekly article again. The digital photos blurred as he blinked—images of Jerusalem’s streets littered with steaming hailstones the size of fists, and Russian planes crumpled like discarded foil beside olive groves untouched by flames. Outside, wind howled against his bedroom window, rattling the pane as if echoing the distant tremors Buck Williams described.

*****

Robert had gone back to his apartment in Chicago’s inner city, and Oliver and Elain were back in their colleges at Chicago State University and University of South Chicago respectively. Mary missed having her sister with her in their room, as they’ve shared a room since Mary was a baby.

She went into the kitchen and saw that eggs and bacon cooking. Donna smiled warmly as she flipped the strips. “Morning, sunshine. Sleep okay?”

Mary shrugged, her gaze drifting to the muted television where footage of Jerusalem’s scorched earth still played on loop—blackened aircraft carcasses protruding from hail-cratered ground like broken teeth. She poured orange juice into a glass, the tang sharp on her tongue. “Do you think it really happened like they say? The fire and ice falling from nowhere?”

Donna slid eggs and bacon onto Mary’s plate, the sizzle fading into the murmur of CNN’s muted broadcast—Jerusalem’s skyline now dotted with emergency vehicles, their flashing lights reflecting off hailstones still littering the streets like abandoned marbles. "“Your father believes it was Ezekiel’s prophecy.” Her thumb brushed Mary’s cheek, warm from the stove’s heat. “But faith…it’s more than headlines, honey. It’s in the quiet.”

Carl entered the kitchen, and made himself some tea. Then Samuel and Aneurin entered. Now with only the three younger kids— Samuel, Aneurin, and Mary— at home, mornings felt cavernous.

“Daddy, what’s Ezekiel’s prophecy?” Mary asked, taking a bite of eggs.

Carl stirred his tea, the spoon clinking against ceramic. “God promised to shield Israel when enemies attacked like a storm." He paused, watching steam curl toward the ceiling. "Like what happened."

As they ate breakfast, Samuel scrolled through news updates on his phone, the screen’s glow reflecting in his wide eyes. School would be resuming on Monday, as the new year started on a Thursday, and today was Friday, so it was too soon to resume classes. The Burton family had all weekend to process the events unfolding overseas. Of course, Sunday would be church—Pastor Billings would undoubtedly address the attack, dissecting prophecy with the fervor of a man who’d spent his life waiting for this moment.

“Dad, when are the Chicago Bears playing?”, Samuel asked, scrolling past the Jerusalem footage to the sports section.

“This Sunday at 3:30, so after church”, Carl said, taking a bite of eggs.

Carl and the boys often liked to watch sports together after church in the living room, and Mary would be watching a movie in the family room, as she wasn’t really into sports, except for figure skating and baseball. As figure skating only happened during the Winter Olympics every four years and baseball season hadn’t started yet, Mary would have to settle for a movie or even a TV series. She enjoyed *ER*, especially Noah Wyle, whom she thought to be good-looking. She enjoyed movies like *Jurassic Park*, *The Peanuts Movie*, and *The Other Boleyn Girl*, especially with Eric Bana as Henry VIII.  As soon as breakfast was finished, they’ve cleaned up the dishes and Donna suggested that they all go outside and enjoy the snow. The kids put on their snowsuits—Mary’s was pink, Aneurin’s green, and Samuel’s blue—and headed outside in the backyard. They built a snowman, rolling the bottom, middle, and top sections into perfectly round balls, sticking them together. Carl helped them find stones for eyes and a carrot for the nose, while Donna wrapped a scarf around its neck. Mary even made a snow angel, lying down on her back and moving her arms and legs back and forth.

Soon after, they went inside and Donna made hot cocoa with marshmallows. Mary curled up on the couch, wrapped in a pink blanket with adorable little lambs printed on it that she had since she was a baby. She held the mug close, letting the steam warm her face as she watched the snow outside the window—thick, silent flakes drifting down like feathers. Samuel and Aneurin often tease her for still using the blanket, but she didn’t mind.

***

Robert looked out at the window over the inner city of Chicago at his apartment complex. The sky was gray and threatening snow. He had been thinking about the events in Israel: the Russian invasion and the miraculous destruction of the Russian jets.

Marc approached quietly, handing Robert a mug of coffee. “Marc, my dad says that what happened in Israel… it matches Bible prophecy. Ezekiel’s Gog and Magog war. What do you make of it?” Robert’s voice was low, his gaze fixed on the distant Sears Tower piercing the gray clouds. Steam curled from the mug, warming his palms as snowflakes began spiraling past the window.

“I believe your dad is right, Robert”, Marc said quietly, sipping his own coffee.

“Oh, come on. I know that you are a Christian, but do you really buy into all that ancient prophecy stuff?”

“It’s not just ancient. It’s now. Russia’s alliance with Iran, Libya—it’s all right there in Ezekiel 38. Now that’s been fulfilled, the Rapture could be next.”

Robert winced. He had grown up hearing about the idea of the Rapture—Christians disappearing in an instant, leaving chaos behind. But he had never fully embraced it. Donna often talked about it, but Robert had dismissed it as outdated theology.

“So you believe Christians are going to vanish?”, Robert asked, setting his mug down with a sharp click.

“Well, yes, I do. I just don’t know when, because Jesus Himself said that no one knows the day or hour. Though people have been trying to predict it for centuries”, Marc said calmly, leaning against the window frame.

Robert knew well that attempted dates have been made repeatedly—predictions that came and went without incident. Marc had been raised in a church that emphasized Revelation studies, something Robert found uncomfortably intense. He traced a finger along the condensation on his coffee mug. "So what's next? World wars? Famines? Or just... vanishing acts?"

Marc pulled a worn Bible from the shelf, flipping to Thessalonians. "Paul says it happens 'as a thief in the night'—unexpected. No signs beyond what we've seen." He tapped the passage about believers caught up in clouds. Outside, snow thickened, blurring the Sears Tower's silhouette.

**

Ashton approached Eddie, who was hunched over his desk with a Styrofoam cup of cold coffee—his eyes darting between CNN footage and a scribbled note from Interpol. "Eddie, you’ve been with homicide for quite some time. Yet you’re watching news?", Ashton asked, leaning against the edge of Eddie’s desk, his leather belt creaking against the laminate surface.

“Well, the Russian airstrikes in Israel isn’t exactly homicide. You know I was a ranger stationed in Syria before I went into law enforcement. I got in to the police academy with a military discount”, Eddie said, rubbing his temple.

“Ah, so you’re kind of an expert on military operations. Yet, you chose a department that solves murder cases instead.”

“Yes, that’s right. Now there’s a difference between killing someone in a war or for self-defense versus committing murder—cold-blooded murder—for personal gain. The murderer usually has a motive—revenge, money, passion—while war kills are just casualties in a much larger operation, and those who kill for self-defense are protecting themselves and others.”

“Right. So what’s Russia’s motive here?”

“They’ve allied themselves with Ethiopia, Lybia, and Iran—all nations Ezekiel mentioned who’d attack Israel,” Gavin said, leaning over Eddie’s shoulder. His breath smelled faintly of peppermint gum. “And now Russia’s troops are amassing exactly where Scripture said they would.”

“You believe in prophecy?”, Eddie asked, raising a skeptical eyebrow at Gavin.

“Sure, I do. If you’ve been saved and study long enough, Scripture never lets you down.”

“Well, Scripture isn’t admissible in court, but I respect your beliefs, Gavin.”

“I appreciate that, Eddie. But tell me this—” Gavin flipped open his Bible to Ezekiel 38, the pages whispering under his fingertips. “When’s the last time Russia mobilized troops toward Israel, only to be wiped out by ‘weather anomalies’ the morning of their attack?”

“Hmm, not that I could think of. I mean, Russia sure has an interesting history, but this particular sequence seems… unusual,” Eddie admitted, scratching his stubble as he squinted at the screen.

“Maybe God’s got your attention. If not, He will eventually.”

Gavin’s words lingered like gun smoke in the stale precinct air as Eddie swiveled back to his screen. The CNN ticker flashed BREAKING: HAILSTORM REPORTED OVER RUSSIAN ARTILLERY POSITIONS—FOOTAGE INCOMING. Ashton exhaled sharply through his nose, fingers twitching toward his sidearm out of habit.

Chapter 7

New Hope Village Church, even now with the digital age, streamed the services online, and posted sermon notes afterwards as PDFs for those who wanted to study the Scriptures further. But still, Carl and Donna both believed in attending services in person—believing that gathering together was important. So as usual, they loaded into their car—Carl driving, Donna in the passenger seat, Samuel, Aneurin, and Mary in the backseat—and headed off.

Children’s Sunday School met during the first service, so the three children went to the youth class in the youth center while Donna volunteer to help in the primary girls class and Carl helped greet new visitors. Pastor Vernon Billings, a dapper, genial man in his mid- to late fifties, greeted him warmly. He have studied the original biblical languages in seminary. While he didn’t overwhelm people with it, he tries to explain what things mean in the Hebrew or Greek. Carl and Donna both respected him—he took Scripture seriously and didn’t water it down, even while explaining difficult passages carefully.

The youth center hummed with the restless energy of middle and high schoolers, their whispered debates about Israel's survival mingling with the crinkle of snack bags. The youth pastor, Jordan, was a young man in his late 30’s with a gentle smile, was single, and Mary had a little crush on him, though she knew he was too old for her. Although she never thought of him as boyfriend material, she admired him. She had known him since she was an infant, as he often babysat her and her older siblings, before he became a youth pastor. Of course she could not have remembered when she first met him, as she was only about three weeks old at the time.

Carl and Donna have brought her to church for the first time at the time, and Jordan was then a young college graduate who volunteered in the nursery. Robert was 10, Oliver 8, Elain 6, Samuel 4, and Aneurin only 2. Jordan had greeted Carl and Donna and the five older children.

“And who’s this little bundle of joy?”, Jordan asked, seeing Mary nestled in Donna’s arms, her tiny fingers curling around the edge of a pink blanket.

“This is Mary, our newest addition,” Donna said softly, adjusting the blanket around the baby’s face.

“Mary. A beautiful name for a beautiful baby girl. May I hold her?”, Jordan asked softly. Donna nodded, carefully transferring the sleeping infant into Jordan’s waiting arms. As he cradled Mary for the first time, he thought about her future, unaware then of her doubts to come and how she’d be attending his youth group years later. “God, protect this little one. She’s so precious and innocent, and I know You have great things in store for her. Help her grow up knowing Your love, and guide her path always. In Jesus’s name. Amen.”

Mary had been too young to remember, but Donna often told her the story, her voice thick with emotion. "He prayed over you right then, Mary," she'd say. "A blessing before you even knew what blessings were."

Now, Mary had often wondered if Jordan remembered her as that little baby—if he still saw her that way now, at 12, in his youth Sunday school class on Sunday mornings and youth group on Wednesday nights with her brothers, wrestling with doubts he could never have guessed at back then. When he spotted Samuel, Aneurin, and Mary, he grinned and waved them over. "Just in time," he said, nodding toward the projection screen where shaky footage of Moscow's stunned generals flickered—just released by anonymous Kremlin insiders. "We're about to discuss how Russia's failed attack lines up with Ezekiel's prophecy."

The youth took their seats, with Mary up front as she often did. Jordan leaned against the lectern, blowing steam from his mug. "Good morning , everyone. I hope you all enjoyed your Christmas break. As you've probably heard, Russia teamed up with Iran, Libya, and several other nations to attack Israel—and failed spectacularly.  Before we dive into tonight's study, let’s open with a word of prayer." He bowed his head, and the room fell silent except for the hum of the overhead heater. “Lord, thank You for Your faithfulness—even when the world makes no sense. We ask for wisdom tonight. In Jesus’s name, amen.”

Jordan flipped open his Bible, the pages rustling like dry leaves. “Ezekiel 38 paints a vivid picture: nations from the north—Russia, Iran, Libya—forming an alliance against Israel. Sound familiar?” He paused, letting the implication settle. Behind him, the projector flickered to life, casting an old map of the Middle East onto the whiteboard—borders shifting under the glow. “Now listen to this passage in Ezekiel 38:

The word of the Lord came to me: 'Son of man, set your face toward Gog, of the land of Magog, the chief prince of Meshech and Tubal, and prophesy against him and say, Thus says the Lord God: Behold, I am against you, O Gog, chief prince of Meshech and Tubal. And I will turn you about and put hooks into your jaws, and I will bring you out, and all your army, horses and horsemen, all of them clothed in full armor, a great host, all of them with buckler and shield, wielding swords. Persia, Cush, and Put are with them, all of them with shield and helmet; Gomer and all his hordes; Beth-togarmah from the uttermost parts of the north with all his hordes—many peoples are with you.

Be ready and keep ready, you and all your hosts that are assembled about you, and be a guard for them. After many days you will be mustered. In the latter years you will go against the land that is restored from war, the land whose people were gathered from many peoples upon the mountains of Israel, which had been a continual waste. Its people were brought out from the peoples and now dwell securely, all of them. You will advance, coming on like a storm. You will be like a cloud covering the land, you and all your hordes, and many peoples with you.

Thus says the Lord God: On that day, thoughts will come into your mind, and you will devise an evil scheme and say, ‘I will go up against the land of unwalled villages. I will fall upon the quiet people who dwell securely, all of them dwelling without walls, and having no bars or gates,’ to seize spoil and carry off plunder, to turn your hand against the waste places that are now inhabited, and the people who were gathered from the nations, who have acquired livestock and goods, who dwell at the center of the earth. Sheba and Dedan and the merchants of Tarshish and all its leaders will say to you, ‘Have you come to seize spoil? Have you assembled your hosts to carry off plunder, to carry away silver and gold, to take away livestock and goods, to seize great spoil?’

Therefore, son of man, prophesy, and say to Gog, 'Thus says the Lord God: On that day when my people Israel are dwelling securely, will you not know it? You will come from your place out of the uttermost parts of the north, you and many peoples with you, all of them riding on horses, a great host, a mighty army. 16 You will come up against my people Israel, like a cloud covering the land. In the latter days I will bring you against my land, that the nations may know me, when through you, O Gog, I vindicate my holiness before their eyes.

Thus says the Lord God: Are you he of whom I spoke in former days by my servants the prophets of Israel, who in those days prophesied for years that I would bring you against them? But on that day, the day that Gog shall come against the land of Israel, declares the Lord God, my wrath will be roused in my anger. For in my jealousy and in my blazing wrath I declare, on that day there shall be a great earthquake in the land of Israel. The fish of the sea and the birds of the heavens and the beasts of the field and all creeping things that creep on the ground, and all the people who are on the face of the earth, shall quake at my presence. And the mountains shall be thrown down, and the cliffs shall fall, and every wall shall tumble to the ground. I will summon a sword against Gog on all my mountains, declares the Lord God. Every man's sword will be against his brother. With pestilence and bloodshed I will enter into judgment with him, and I will rain upon him and his hordes and the many peoples who are with him torrential rains and hailstones, fire and sulfur. So I will show my greatness and my holiness and make myself known in the eyes of many nations. Then they will know that I am the Lord.'”

As the youth listened intently to Jordan's reading of Ezekiel 38, the projector's hum seemed to synchronize with the rising tension in the room. Samuel leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fingers steepled against his lips as Jordan paused—just long enough for someone in the back row to whisper, "That's exactly what happened not too long ago.”

“Correct. Now what are Magog, Rosh, Meshech and Tubal referring to today?” Jordan scanned the room, his fingers drumming the lectern. The projector flickered again, overlaying modern nation names—Russia, Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Uzbekistan, Turkmenistan, Tajikistan, and Turkey. “These countries here—Russia, Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Uzbekistan, Turkmenistan, and Tajikistan was the Soviet Union—Russia and her allies. Persia is Iran. Ethiopia and Libya are Libya and Sudan—countries north and south of Israel. Gomer and Beth Togarmah are Turkey—a country north of Israel.” His pointer tapped against the map with each name, the hollow sound echoing through the silent room. “Now, did Russia attack Israel recently?”

“Yes”, the youth chorused, their voices uneven—some confident, others hesitant.

“Last summer, there was an alliance between Russia and Iran—sound familiar?" Jordan’s finger lingered over the dotted line connecting Tehran and Moscow on the projected map. “And notice that Sheba and Dedan and the merchants of Tarshish and its young lions—Saudi Arabia, Great Britain, and America—didn’t intervene, just as Ezekiel predicted. We did not step in. Instead, we asked, ‘Why are you going after Israel?’ Especially if it’s been on the news, 

then hopefully you’re asking yourself—why would Russia attack Israel?”

“But where would Hamas fit into all this?”, Mary asked, twisting a strand of hair around her finger—the same nervous habit she’d had since childhood.

“Hamas attacked Israel a few years ago, so Hamas wasn’t involved in Ezekiel’s prophecy,” Jordan said, rubbing his chin as the projector flickered again—this time displaying footage of smoldering Russian jets strewn across Israeli deserts, their wings crumpled like discarded foil. “Now notice the chunks of ice and fire that destroyed them—just like Ezekiel predicted. No Israeli homes touched. If no one stepped in to stop Russia, who did?”

“God Himself did”, Ronnie said, his knees bouncing under the folding chair, the metal legs screeching against the linoleum. His fingers tapped an erratic rhythm on the armrest—not quite matching the muffled bass from the sanctuary upstairs where the adult service was underway.

Jordan nodded slowly. “Exactly.” The projector’s next slide showed satellite images of the Russian fleet’s wreckage—burned hulls scattered across the Mediterranean seabed like broken toys. “And here’s the chilling part: God didn’t just defend Israel. He *annihilated* the threat.”

“Jordan, if this was indeed Ezekiel’s prophecy, then why would the media call it ‘weather anomalies’?”, asked Aneurin, raising his hand with deliberate slowness—his voice dripping with skepticism.

“Well, Aneurin, we live in a world that calls darkness light and light darkness,” Jordan said as he traced the map’s dotted lines with his fingertip—the same way Mary remembered him tracing bedtime stories on her childhood ceiling. “When supernatural events align too perfectly with Scripture, people either kneel—or scramble for explanations.”

The youth room's heater clicked off abruptly, leaving only the whisper of pages turning and the occasional creak of folding chairs. Ronnie's knee-jittering stopped mid-bounce as Jordan stepped closer to the projector screen, his shadow stretching across the wreckage images like a dark finger pointing at prophecy fulfilled. "Notice how Ezekiel describes the weapons—'Every man's sword against his brother.'" Jordan tapped the photo of two collapsed MiGs, their wingtips nearly touching in the sand. "Russian pilots reported their missiles malfunctioned midair. Some even veered backward. Coincidence?"

“Now let me close with this,” Jordan said as the projector light flickered off, plunging the room into the dim glow of overhead fluorescents. “Prophecy isn’t just about predicting the future—it’s about proving God’s sovereignty when the world insists on calling it coincidence.” He flipped his Bible shut with one hand, the sound like a punctuation mark. “This Wednesday, we’ll dive into Daniel’s time clock. Questions? No? Then let’s pray.” He closed in prayer then dismissed the youth class to second service.

Mary lingered after the others filed out, and Jordan approached her with a gentle smile. "Remember when your mommy or daddy dropped you off in the nursery, you’d reach your little hands out to me?", he asked, mimicking the motion with his own hands—palms up, fingers curling slightly inward.

How could Jordan remember that? Whenever they brought Mary to church as a baby, Donna or Carl would carry her to the nursery, and Jordan would be there to care for her. She would be reaching out her little hands to him. She had always been a happy baby, which made Jordan’s heart swell every time he saw her. Aneurin had already moved out of nursery to the preschool class with Samuel, so Mary was the only one in the nursery at that time. He’d bounce her gently on his knee, changed her diaper, fed her, play with her, read her Bible stories, and put her down for a nap. He even nicknamed her “Mary-bear” because she’d cling to his shirt like a little koala whenever he held her. When she was a toddler and old enough to talk, she nicknamed him “Jor-Jor,” as she couldn’t pronounce his name properly yet. She had been so little, so trusting—nothing like the restless twelve-year-old standing before him now, twisting the hem of her sweater between her fingers.

“You remember?”, Mary murmured, her fingers stilling against her sweater.

Jordan chuckled. "Of course I remember. You were such an adorable little baby, weren’t you? It brought a smile to my face every time I saw you.”

“I guess. Jordan, if this was Ezekiel’s prophecy, does that mean the Rapture’s next?”

“Maybe, though I can’t tell you that. Jesus Himself said nobody knows the day or the hour, Mary. The point isn’t to predict—it’s to be prepared.”

Mary nodded. Jordan gently squeezed her shoulder, his fingers warm through her sweater—just like she remembered from childhood. She met with Samuel and Aneurin in the hallway outside the youth room, their footsteps echoing off the linoleum as they headed toward the sanctuary.

They’ve greeted people in the foyer, such as associate pastor Bruce Barnes, a man in his thirties with curly hair and wire-rimmed glasses, and his wife Laura. Their three young children, the youngest being a baby, were in children’s church with children‘s pastor Danielle and in the nursery with Allison, who was volunteering today. Then they greeted Jackie, an athletic brunette woman, her husband Dooley, and their 10 year old daughter Brianna. Jackie babysat the six Burton children when Jordan wasn’t available, and she was always willing to help. Mary remembered Jackie’s gentle hands braiding her hair while humming hymns, and she later became her skating coach, so Mary knew her well. She waved shyly at Brianna, who grinned back before darting off toward the children’s wing.

Mary sat between the boys in their usual pew—third row from the front, left side— while their parents sat beside them. After all the usual preliminaries—call to worship, prayer, singing, special music, offering, and announcements—it was finally time for Pastor Billings’s sermon.

“Brothers and sisters, as you may have seen what happened in Israel on the news,” Pastor Billings began, taking his place behind the pulpit with his weathered Bible—its spine cracked from decades of study—resting in his palms. “I believe we are witnessing the fulfillment of prophecy. Ezekiel 37 describes the valley of dry bones—Israel’s rebirth as a nation— which was fulfilled in 1948. Ezekiel 38? Russia’s failed invasion.” His thumb brushed over an underlined passage, the ink faded but the implications fresh. “God promised to protect Israel from total annihilation from outside forces- Magog (Russia) and her allies—and He did.” The sanctuary lights flickered, casting shadows that stretched across the congregants’ faces like veils of doubt or conviction. “Now you may be asking—why Russia? Why Israel?” He paused, letting the question hang between the pews like incense. “Because Israel is God’s timepiece. If you think the end times centers around the United States, you’re wrong. It will center around the Middle East—specifically Iraq and Israel. Daniel’s prophecies, Ezekiel’s prophecies—they’re unfolding before our eyes.”

The congregation shifted in their seats—fabric rustling, Bibles thumbed open—as Pastor Billings traced Ezekiel’s verses with a fingertip yellowed by highlighter ink. A man two pews ahead crumpled a bulletin in his fist, the paper crackling like distant gunfire. “Now you might be wondering if the Rapture comes next”, Billings continued, “Well, I can’t tell you that, though it could be the next thing to happen. There aren’t any prophetic events that need to happen before the Rapture happens- it could happen at any moment. If you seen the movie *A Thief in the Night*, you’d know the Rapture comes like a thief—unannounced. Jesus Himself said He comes ‘as a thief in the night’- not knowing when He’ll come. As I have said over the years, we are going to vanish right in front of unbelievers, leaving them behind. Though we don’t know all the details of how or when the Rapture will happen, we know it will happen.”

Pastor Billings turned his Bible to I Corinthians 15:51-52: "Behold, I tell you a mystery—we shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed, in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet. The trumpet will sound, and the dead will be raised imperishable, and we shall be changed." “The apostle Paul didn’t write this as metaphor. It’s a mystery—but one that will happen. We are in the church age now- it started at Pentecost and will end at the Rapture. The dead in Christ shall rise first when the trumpet sounds- from Stephen, James, Peter, Paul, Augustine, Luther, Calvin, Wesley, right down to Charlie Kirk, who spoke at college campuses and was assassinated back in September 10, 2025, while on stage at Utah Valley University in Orem, Utah. Then we which are alive and remain shall be caught up together with them in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air—just as Enoch was raptured without seeing death.”

After the sermon, Pastor Billings gave an altar call, inviting anyone who felt "convicted" to come forward—his voice lower now, almost conspiratorial, like he was sharing a secret too urgent to shout. Mary watched as a handful of people shuffled toward the front, their footsteps muffled by the thick red carpet. Beside her, Aneurin rolled his eyes and muttered something to Samuel, who elbowed him sharply in the ribs.

As soon as service was over, the Burton family piled into Carl’s sedan, the lingering scent of peppermint from Donna’s purse masking the faint leather odor of the seats. Mary sat in the middle seat, wedged between Samuel and Aneurin, mainly because she was the smallest, although she was 12.

“So how was Sunday School?”, Carl asked, gripping on the steering wheel with both hands as he pulled out of the church parking lot.

“It was great, Dad. Pastor Jordan showed us the footage of Russia’s attack,” Samuel said, tapping his fingers against the window ledge—the rhythm uneven, like Morse code with missing dots. “He connected it to Ezekiel. Said Russia’s planes crashed just like the prophecy described.”

“Sometimes I don’t understand half of what Jordan’s talking about,” Mary said as Mount Prospect’s strip malls blurred past the window—her fingers worrying the stitching on her sweater cuff. “Like, if Russia attacked Israel and lost ’cause of God, why’s the news saying it was solar flares?”

“Honey, the news doesn’t report miracles,” Carl said, adjusting the rearview mirror just enough to catch Mary’s reflection. “They call it weather anomalies because ‘act of God’ doesn’t fit in the teleprompter.”

He pulled into their driveway, opened the garage, and pulled the car inside. Donna reached for her purse as Carl switched off the ignition, the engine's hum dissolving into silence. He closed the garage door and the three children unbuckled their seatbelts and got out of the car. They all stepped into the house through the garage door and Carl set his keys on the counter with a soft clink.

Chapter 8

*

Oliver drove from church back to Chicago to meet his roommate at a diner off Interstate 90. He drove past boarded-up storefronts, their windows cracked like spiderwebs—each fracture a silent testament to last summer’s riots. At a red light, he tapped his fingers against the steering wheel, humming along to a hymn that had clung to him since morning service, its melody threading through his thoughts like an uninvited guest.

He pulled into the diner's cracked asphalt lot, the tires crunching over stray gravel, and turned off the ignition. He saw at the same time, his roommate Remy had pulled into the parking lot in his own car. Remy noticed a cross and Christian fish on the back of Oliver’s car and smirked—not unkindly, but with the practiced ease of someone who’d heard too many sidewalk sermons.

Oliver liked Remy, even though he wasn’t a Christian, but his roommate always listened—really listened—when Oliver talked about his faith. Oliver even had invited Remy to church a few times, though Remy had politely declined.

They’ve stepped inside the diner, the bell above the door jangling like a half-hearted amen. Oliver slid into the booth first, the vinyl creaking under his weight, while Remy took the seat opposite, shrugging off his jacket. It wasn’t a date necessarily, as Oliver wasn’t the type to date another man, but he certainly liked Remy. There were some gay or lesbian couples on campus, but Oliver wasn’t like that—he just liked Remy as a roommate, as a friend.

A waitress approached, and brought two glasses of water—condensation already pooling on the waxed cardboard coasters. "You gentlemen want the usual?"

“Yes, please”, Oliver said, glancing at Remy, who nodded and slid the laminated menu back into its holder. “So, Remy, what do you think about that Russian attack on Israel? CNN’s calling it solar flares.”

“I’ve seen the news, yes. It’s wild stuff. But solar flares?” Remy flipped his fork between his fingers, the tines catching the diner’s fluorescent light. “That’s… convenient.” His pause wasn’t skeptical—just thoughtful, like he was turning over a puzzle piece that didn’t quite fit. “What do you think happened?”

Oliver traced a bead of condensation down his glass. “Ezekiel 38,” he said quietly. “Russia and her allies—Iran, Turkey—attacking Israel, only for God to supernaturally intervene. Hailstones, earthquakes, weapons malfunctioning.” He glanced up, watching Remy’s reaction. “Sound familiar?”

Remy leaned back, the vinyl squeaking. “And CNN’s explanation?”

Oliver shrugged. “Media’s allergic to miracles. Always has been.” He folded his napkin into neat quarters, the creases sharp. “They called the Red Sea crossing ‘tidal anomalies.’ Remember how I often talk about the Rapture in our dorm? They’ll call that ‘mass disappearances’—some ‘scientific’ excuse.”

“Now what is actually the Rapture?”

“It’s when Jesus returns to take His church—believers—out of this world. There are different ideas about when it’s going to happen—before, during, or after the Tribulation. I believe He will take His church before the Tribulation, a period of seven years.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Well, in 1 Thessalonians,” Oliver said, tapping his water glass lightly—each tap sending a ripple through the condensation— “Paul says believers are not appointed to wrath. The Tribulation’s God’s judgment on an unbelieving world. Why would He pour that out on His own people? But even if the church is still here, God will put a seal on His followers’ foreheads for protection. In Exodus, He shielded Israel from Egypt’s plagues—same logic. Revelation 9 talks about how the locusts only tormented those without the seal. In any case, I believe the Church will not be affected by the Tribulation.”

The waitress slid two plates onto the table—Oliver’s turkey club with extra pickles and mustard, no mayo, and Remy’s patty melt glistening under the diner’s harsh lights. “So you’re saying,” Remy began, prodding a fry through a puddle of ketchup, “that Russia gets nuked by hailstones because some dusty prophecy said so, and CNN’s just...what? Playing along?”

Oliver wiped mustard from the corner of his mouth with a napkin, the paper rough against his skin. “Not nuked. Neutralized. Ezekiel says their weapons’ll turn on each other—like when those Russian jets malfunctioned mid-air.” He tapped his phone screen, pulling up shaky footage of a Sukhoi spiraling into the Black Sea. “See that? No ejection seats. Pilots just...gone.”

Remy squinted at the video, the diner’s neon sign outside flickering across his face in red and blue pulses. “Could be tech failure. Happens all the time.”

Oliver shook his head, nudging his plate aside to lean forward. “Sixteen planes, all malfunctioning mid-attack? Guns jamming, missiles detonating in their bays?” He tapped the screen again—another clip, this time of Russian soldiers stumbling through Jerusalem’s outskirts, their rifles sparking uselessly in their hands. “Ezekiel said they’d turn on each other. Look at their uniforms—burn marks from friendly fire.”

Remy chewed slowly, his gaze flicking between the screen and Oliver’s face. Outside, a siren wailed past—three short bursts, then silence. “Okay, say it’s real,” he said finally, wiping grease from his fingers. “What’s next? Four horsemen? Dragons?”

“Not dragons,” Oliver said, rolling a pickle spear between his fingers, the brine glistening under the diner’s flickering fluorescents. “Horsemen, though—Revelation 6. Conquest, war, famine, death.” He flicked a drop of condensation off his glass, watching it hit the table between them like a tiny omen. “But first? The Rapture. One minute people are here—brushing teeth, stuck in traffic—next minute?” He snapped his fingers, the sound sharp against the diner’s low hum of clattering dishes. “Gone. Just clothes left behind.”

Remy’s patty melt paused halfway to his mouth, cheese stretching thinly before snapping. “And you really believe that.” Not a question—a statement, with the weight of a chess piece hovering over an unfamiliar board.

Oliver exhaled, pushing his plate aside to make room for his elbows on the Formica. “I don’t just believe it. I’m counting on it.” The diner’s fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting their shadows against the cracked vinyl booth like silent jurors.

As soon as their meal was finished, they split the check—cash on the table and a tip tucked under Oliver’s water glass. The diner’s bell jangled again as they stepped back into the late afternoon, the air thick with exhaust and the metallic tang of impending snow.

*

Donna made lunch in the kitchen while Carl turned on the smart TV mounted in the living room—the local news anchor’s face pixelating briefly before stabilizing into a mask of practiced concern. The Chicago Bears game was to start at 3:30, but Carl had wanted to catch the news first—just in case there were any updates from Israel. It was an hour drive to Soldier Field, United Center, the Wintrust Arena, Guaranteed Rate Field, and Wringley Field from Mount Prospect, so Carl usually watched the games at home—except for those special occasions when he took the kids to United Center to watch the Bulls, or the boys to Soldier Field to watch the Bears or even Mary to Wringley Field to watch the Cubs. As the Cubs’ mascot was a bear cub and Mary possessed a pink teddy bear that she named Rosie, Mary liked the Cubs, while Samuel and Aneurin liked the Bears—hence why Carl usually took Mary to Wringley Field, and the boys to Soldier Field. Elain was more into sports than Mary was, though they had gone to the Bulls game together, which was a great time for their sisterly bond. As they were the only girls in the family of 6 children, Elain and Mary were close—though Elain was a freshman in college while Mary was still in middle school.

The news flickered on the screen, and it featured Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu standing at the Western Wall, his hand pressed against the ancient stone as CNN’s chyron scrolled: *“Russian attack repelled: Netanyahu credits ‘divine intervention.’”*

Carl actually liked Netanyahu and even met him in person when he went to Israel for a cover story for the Global Weekly. Seeing him on the screen brought back memories of Jerusalem's golden light filtering through olive trees—how the prime minister's office smelled faintly of lemon polish and gun oil. The chyron kept scrolling—*"Russian pilots reported equipment failures consistent with electromagnetic pulse effects"*—but Carl's fingers tightened around the remote when the camera cut to smoldering wreckage along Israel's northern border. 

“Dad, isn’t that Netanyahu, the prime minister of Israel?”, Samuel asked, seeing Netanyahu on the screen.

“It is. I actually met him once,” Carl said, his thumb hovering over the remote’s volume button as Netanyahu’s voice filled the room—gravelly, deliberate, the kind of tone that made even grocery lists sound prophetic. Behind him, smoke curled from a crater where CNN’s ticker now read *"Unconfirmed reports of Russian troops retreating amid equipment malfunctions."*

Donna came out with sandwiches arranged on a tray, the scent of warm rye and smoked turkey filling the room as Netanyahu’s voice continued. The TV cut to shaky footage of Russian soldiers stumbling through a valley—their rifles sparking uselessly, barrels warped like melted licorice. Mary took her sandwich and bit into it, the mustard sharp on her tongue.

Aneurin snatched a sandwich off the tray as he gestured at the screen. "See? Even Netanyahu’s saying it—no way that’s solar flares." Samuel elbowed him sharply, nodding toward their mother, who was gripping the tray tighter now, her wedding ring catching the light as her hands trembled slightly.

As soon as lunch was finished, Mary went into the family room, picked up Rosie the bear, and sat on the couch while Carl and the boys watched the Chicago Bears game. She turned on the smart TV, scrolling past Netflix and Disney+, then found *Race For Your Life, Charlie Brown*—she liked Snoopy, but mostly enjoyed Charlie Brown's moments of quiet introspection. Charlie Brown was known for his failures, but he always kept trying—that was something Mary admired.

Carl sat in his recliner while the boys settled into the couch, pretzel crumbs scattering across the coffee table as the Bears’ kickoff soared through crisp January air.

“The Bears just made a touchdown! They’re actually winning this one,” Samuel said, crunching on a pretzel as the quarterback spiked the ball near the end zone.

“When was the last time the Bears actually won a playoff game?”, Aneurin asked, tossing a pretzel into his mouth as the defense lined up.

“It’s been a long time,” Carl said, watching the Bears’ defense collapse under a sudden blitz. The quarterback scrambled, his cleats kicking up tufts of artificial turf as a linebacker dragged him down. “‘The Refrigerator’ Perry’s era, maybe.”

“‘The refrigerator’? Who names their kid after an appliance?”

“It was a nickname, Aneurin. William Perry was a big guy, 6 ft 2 tall, and weighing 335 lbs in his prime. He was a defensive lineman—ran a touchdown in Super Bowl XX. The Chicago Bears hadn’t really been the same since until recently.”

“And it was the same with the Chicago Bulls, wasn’t it?”, Samuel asked, crunching another pretzel as the Bears’ defense forced a fumble.

“That’s correct. Michael Jordan was the face of the Bulls for years.”

“Wasn’t he featured in that movie with the Looney Tunes?”, Aneurin asked, stretching his legs over the coffee table just as Donna swatted them away with a dish towel. The Bears’ kicker lined up for a field goal, the stadium’s roar muffled through the speakers like distant thunder.

“*Space Jam*? Yes, that’s the one. Michael Jordan played himself, then retired right after,” Carl said, rubbing his chin as the TV cut to a commercial—some local car dealership ad blaring through the speakers with forced enthusiasm. Outside, wind rattled the storm windows, their panes rattling like loose teeth. Aneurin tossed another pretzel into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully as the game resumed—Bears’ offense shuffling into formation, the quarterback’s breath visible in the cold even through the screen.

Meanwhile, Mary clutched Rosie as the couch springs creaked beneath her— *Race for your life, Charlie Brown* still playing.

During commercial break, Donna fixed dinner- ginger chicken with steamed broccoli- and Carl stole glances at his phone’s notifications. As soon as dinner was served, it was halftime already—the scoreboard frozen at 17-10, Bears leading. They went to sit at the dining table, with Carl sitting at the head, Donna at the other end, and the kids along the sides. As their kitchen, dining room, and living room were all an open space, they still had a clear view of the TV from the dining table—the halftime show blaring through the living room speakers, punctuated by the clatter of forks against plates. Mary had sat Rosie on the couch in the family room, and she joined them at the dining table.

Carl said grace, his voice low and steady—the same cadence he'd used for twenty-three years of family meals. The scent of ginger and soy curled between them, mingling with the halftime commentator's droning analysis of the Bears' defensive line.

“It’s back to school tomorrow”, Samuel said, taking a bite of chicken and glancing at Mary. “You ready?”

Mary shrugged, her socked feet swinging under the table. “I guess.”

As soon as dinner was over, the boys went back to the couch while Mary went to her room and changed into her pajamas— soft pink flannel with snowflakes that had been a Christmas gift from Elain last year.  Then she grabbed her pink lamb blanket and went back to the family room, curling up on the couch with Rosie tucked under her arm as she scrolled through the smart TV’s menu, and found *The Peanuts Movie*—the newest one with Charlie Brown’s little crush on the red-haired girl. It was the first movie Mary saw in theaters, back when she was only 2 years old—she barely remembered it, but the warmth of sitting on Carl’s lap in the dark theater had stayed with her. She selected it on the TV, and turned the volume down low—just loud enough to hear Snoopy’s typewriter clacking, but not so loud that it would bother Carl and the boys as they watched the Bears’ second half kickoff.

“Touchdown!”, Samuel shouted as the Bears’ wide receiver somersaulted into the end zone, the ball clamped tight against his ribs like a priceless artifact.

Carl grinned as the Bears kicked an extra point through the uprights, the crowd's roar bleeding through the speakers like distant thunder. His fingers drummed against the recliner's armrest—once, twice.

Carl got up to check on Mary in the family room—her pink lamb blanket pooled around her like spilled cotton candy, Rosie's button eyes catching the TV's flicker as Snoopy battled the Red Baron mid-air. The scent of microwaved popcorn clung to the couch cushions when he sat beside her, his knees cracking like old floorboards under the movie's tinny soundtrack.

“Hey, honey, you okay?”, Carl murmured, brushing Mary’s hair away from her forehead—his fingertips rough against her skin like the pages of an old Bible.

“Yeah, Daddy. Just thinking about Charlie Brown,” Mary whispered, her fingers tracing Rosie’s ear.

Carl looked at what she was watching— *The Peanuts Movie*—and suddenly saw himself through the screen’s reflection: the lines around his eyes deeper than he remembered.

“Ah, the first movie we took you to,” Carl said, watching Charlie Brown’s round head bob across the screen. He could still smell the sticky theater floor, the way Mary’s tiny hands had clutched his sleeve when Snoopy’s doghouse took flight.

Carl went back to the living room to finish watching the Bears Game with the boys. As soon as he returned to his recliner, Samuel groaned— “Interception! Come on!”—as the Bears’ quarterback lobbed a wobbly pass straight into the arms of a Packers linebacker. The crowd’s collective groan pulsed through the speakers like a dying heartbeat.

It was now into the fourth quarter and the Bears were still leading. Then the Bears’ quarterback fumbled the snap. The ball skittered across the turf like a dropped coin, players scrambling in chaotic slow motion on the screen.

“See that? The Bears won the play game!”, Samuel declared, pointing at the screen where the replay showed the interception looping again—the cornerback’s hands snapping around the ball like a bear trap.

“What is that they say? ‘The Bears’?”, Aneurin asked, stretching his arms behind his head as the Bears’ offense lined up again.

Carl chuckled. "Yes—'The Bears’ Monsters of the Midway.' That was their nickname back in the '40s defense."

Mary finished watching *The Peanuts Movie* and padded back to the living room in her socked feet, the fuzzy pink fabric whispering against hardwood. The game was now over—the Bears had won—but the screen had switched back to news coverage, showing more wreckage footage from Israel’s border.

“I think we had enough news for today”, Carl said, switching the TV off with a decisive click. “How about some ice cream?”

Mary’s eyes lit up at the mention of ice cream. She went to place Rosie on her bed, the teddy bear's glass eyes catching the lamplight as she smoothed its pink bow. Then she came back as Donna fixed different dishes of ice cream- strawberry with gummy butterflies for Mary (her favorite), butter pecan with salted caramel for Aneurin (an odd but delicious combination), moose track (which was vanilla ice cream with fudge and peanut butter cups) for Samuel, and cookies n cream with fudge sauce for Carl and Donna to share. As Carl scooped the cookies n cream into a bowl, the spoon scraped against the ceramic with a sound like distant crickets—a noise that always made Mary giggle.

As soon dessert was finished, Samuel picked up the empty bowls and carried them to the sink—his slippers scuffing against the linoleum with a sound like sandpaper. The rest of the evening was spent with the family relaxing—Carl and Donna sitting on the couch, quietly discussing tomorrow’s schedule, while Samuel and Aneurin went into their room, and Mary went into her room. The house was silent except for the occasional creak of the floorboards and the hum of the refrigerator.

It was soon bed time, and Carl first went into the boys’ room- Samuel and Aneurin were already lying in their beds. “Lights out, boys”, Carl said, flicking the switch and plunging the room into darkness save for the faint glow of Samuel’s digital clock—its red numerals casting elongated shadows across their duvet covers.

“Okay, dad”, Samuel said, shifting under his sheets—the fabric rustling like dry leaves. Across the room, Aneurin mumbled something unintelligible into his pillow, already half-asleep. Carl lingered in the doorway, watching their silhouettes flatten against the dim glow of Samuel’s clock—the red digits flickering from 8:29 to 8:30 with a soft click.

Carl then closed the door and went into Mary’s room to say goodnight as she curled under her comforter, clutching Rosie to her chest. The adorable pink lamb nightlight cast soft shadows on the walls. "Did you like the movie?" Carl asked, sitting on the edge of her bed.

“Yes, Daddy, I did. Charlie Brown never gives up,” Mary whispered, tracing Rosie’s ear with her thumb. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course,” Carl said, smoothing Mary’s hair back.

“I was wondering, Daddy, why does in Chicago, football  has the bears and baseball has the cubs, but they’re both bears?”

“Well, honey, football is aggressive—like full-grown bears with brute strength attacking. Baseball is playful, like cubs tumbling in the grass.”

Mary had fond memories of the Daddy-Daughter date when Carl took her to see the Cubs play— and the ice cream that was served in little plastic Cubs hats. The Cubs won that day, and she remembered Carl lifting her onto his shoulders afterward, her fingers tangled in his thinning hair as Wrigley Field’s lights burned like distant stars.

“Cubs are cute,” Mary murmured, her eyelids fluttering as she burrowed deeper into the comforter.

“Yes, they are, and you are my little cub,” Carl murmured, pressing a kiss to Mary’s forehead.

“School’s back tomorrow, isn’t it?”, Mary whispered into Rosie’s fur.

“That’s right, baby. That means now it’s time for you to get right to sleep,” Carl whispered, tucking the comforter snugly around Mary’s shoulders—the fabric still warm from the dryer, smelling faintly of lavender detergent.

“Good night, Daddy”, Mary whispered as she snuggled in the covers with Rosie.

“Goodnight, little princess”, Carl murmured, kissing Mary’s forehead one last time before standing—the mattress springs sighing beneath his weight as he rose. He paused at her door, watching the pink lamb nightlight paint shifting patterns across Rosie’s button eyes like distant constellations. The scent of lavender fabric softener clung to Mary’s comforter as she curled tighter around her bear, her breathing already slowing into the rhythm of sleep.

Carl met with Donna in the living room, where she had already folded the throw blankets—each crease sharp as a ruler's edge. Then they went into the master bedroom, where Donna turned down the duvet in the same practiced motion she'd used for twenty-three years, her wedding ring clicking softly against the nightstand lamp as she adjusted the dimmer. Carl got out his Bible and he and Donna did their nightly Bible reading together as they often did together—Proverbs 3:5-6 tonight, the pages whispering under his calloused fingertips—before praising the Lord and then saying their prayers together, their murmured words weaving through the quiet like threads through linen.

Chapter 9

*

The next morning, the three kids got up out of bed, and each made themselves a bowl of cereal—Mary poured herself some Cheetah Chomps (a cereal from Nature’s Path EnviroKidz—gluten free, organic, and shaped like cheerios with organic fruit and veggies such as raspberries, strawberries, and carrots—her favorite), Aneurin grabbed some grape nuts (the plain kind—the ones that were just wheat and barley, no sugar added) mixed with raisins, and Samuel had some cheerios topped with banana slices. Carl and Donna both already had eaten breakfast, oatmeal with cinnamon and raisins for both, and Donna was packing hot lunches in thermos for each of the kids— sesame chicken with rice and veggies for Mary (her favorite), stir fry rice noodles with sweet and sour pork for Aneurin, and shrimp fried rice with egg rolls for Samuel—as well as fruit, veggies and hummus, and a granola bar for each of them.

They soon got ready for work and school- Carl putting on his suit and tie, Donna putting on her blouse and dress pants, Samuel and Aneurin each putting on their T-Shirt and jeans, Mary putting on her dress and leggings, and each of them grabbed their bags and put their shoes on. Soon, Carl and Donna wished the kids a good day at school, and Donna went into her little office while Carl got into his sedan and drove off to work. Meanwhile, the three kids each got into their respective buses- Samuel and Aneurin into theirs, and Mary into hers, and then headed to their schools.

**

At Prospect High School, Harold was a senior, Everett, Jared, and Samuel were juniors, Clarice was a sophomore, and Ronnie, Aneurin, and Cheryl were freshmen. There were two cousins that were also juniors named John Preston who was tall and blond and Mark Eisman who was stockier and dark haired. They were both known to brainiacs, often found in the library.

Then there was a sophomore boy, Judd Thompson, Jr., whom Samuel and Aneurin knew from church. Judd had a reputation of being known as “rich kid”, since his father, Judd Thompson, Sr., owned a company in Chicago and was wealthy. His mother never worked outside of the home, which made Judd seem even more distant from the reality that most kids faced. Even though the resemblance between the father and son was uncanny with the same dark hair, Judd, Jr was already taller than his dad. Even though Judd, Jr was raised in a Christian home and even used to invite his friends to church and youth group, he felt he had outgrown the beliefs of his family and church. At school he hung with kids who got to make their own decisions and do what they wanted to do. That was all he wanted. A little freedom.  Lately at church, Judd slouched when his father wasn’t looking. He wanted to burrow within himself and just make it through to the end of the service. He didn’t sing along, he didn’t bow his head during prayer, he didn’t shut his eyes. No one had ever said those were rules; Judd was simply trying to be different from everyone else. He was way too cool for this stuff

“Hey, Judd, I haven’t seen you at youth group in a while. What’s up?”, Samuel asked, adjusting his backpack strap as they shuffled through the crowded hallway just before first period.

Judd shrugged, hands shoved deep in his pockets, his expensive sneakers squeaking against the linoleum. “Just busy, man. Got other stuff going on.”

“Uh-huh. Well, youth pastor Jordan’s been doing a series on the last days. You saw what happened in Israel, right?”

“Sure I did, Sam. Freak weather.”

“Well, Judd,” Samuel said, leaning against the locker beside him, “Youth group is resuming tonight. Jordan’s talking about end times prophecies again—might be worth hearing.”

“Yeah, sure. Later, Sam.”

Samuel watched Judd disappear into the throng of students, the fluorescent hallway lights flickering faintly overhead. The scent of industrial cleaner mixed with body spray lingered in the air as he turned toward his locker, running a hand through his hair.

“Hey, Sam”, Jared said, appearing suddenly at Samuel’s locker.

“Jared, are you and Jay going to be at the youth group study tonight?” Samuel asked, twisting the dial on his locker. The metal clicked sharply—too loud in the hallway’s chatter.

“We wouldn’t miss Pastor Jordan’s teachings for anything. He really knows how to break down Ezekiel, Daniel, and Revelation without sounding like a conspiracy theorist.”

Then the bell rang. Samuel shoved his chemistry book into his backpack, the zipper catching on a loose strap. Across the hallway, Aneurin leaned against the water fountain, laughing too loudly with his new friends—kids who reeked of cigarette smoke and carried themselves like they'd already seen the world's harsh edges.

Meanwhile, there was another freshman girl from a trailer park, Prospect Gardens, named Shelly who had flat brown hair. Other kids at school considered kids who lived in trailer parks lower class and had a reputation of being troublemakers. Every Friday night, there was a community dance where drunk and jealous husbands fought over their wives and girlfriends. It was not unusual for the dances to be broken up by the police, with one or more of the fighters being hauled off to jail for the night. About a year ago or less, a preacher interrupted one of the dances and talked about Jesus, and many of the people in the trailer park had given their lives to Jesus. Shelly and her family heard about it, but it wasn’t for them. Samuel, although he didn’t personally see it, was amazed how God could touch the lives of those who were considered outcasts by society, like those who lived in the trailer park.

**

Lincoln Middle School even had its own set of challenges. Santiago, Lionel, Jay, Gracie and Mary were all 12 and in the 7th grade and even had many of the same classes. However, Santiago and Mary had never really talked to each other; Santiago was the popular jock and Mary was shy and a figure skater. Gracie even did figure skating with Mary, but she had a different social circle. She was strong in her faith, but she had a gentle way of sharing it. Lionel shared a seat on the bus with Mary, mainly because she was shy and he was having trouble deciding where he fit. There were few other Negro kids at Lincoln Middle School, and none of them went to Lionel’s old church in Chicago, where his family still attended every Sunday. Santiago, as a Hispanic boy, although he was the jock, was kind of an outsider as well, as he too faced his own set of prejudices. There were other Hispanics at school, but much like the Negroes, they were still in the minority.

There was also, a tall and slender, eighth grade girl with fiery red hair named Vicki Byrne, who was from the trailer park. She was tough. She had to be. Vicki’s friends were her “own kind,” as her enemies liked to say. Her parents Tom and Dawn, and little sister Jeanni were among those who got saved at the time when the preacher visited the trailer park. Vicki’s older brother Eddie, who moved out on his own to Michigan after graduating from high school, texted Vicki that he had begun going to church up in Michigan. Vicki, however, would have nothing to do with it. Before then, Tom had trouble keeping a job as a mechanic, a construction worker, a short-order cook, and a cashier at a convenience store, and Dawn’s waitressing didn’t pay enough to cover their bills. Being arrested or late or absent from work one too many times always cost him his job, and then they would live on welfare for a few months until he could find something else. He was now a new man. He never missed work, was always on time, got promoted, had more friends. Mary and her family had seen Vicki at New Hope Village Church on those few occasions when she was dragged there, all but kicking and screaming, by her parents.

“Hey, you’re Vicki, aren’t you, the girl from the trailer park?”, Santiago asked, bouncing a tennis ball against the lockers with rhythmic thuds that echoed down the hallway.

“Yeah. You must be that Hispanic jock, one of the most popular kids around here, right?”, Vicki shot back, flipping her fiery hair over her shoulder.

Santiago knew that no Hispanics or Latinos or Negroes or any other racial group lived in the trailer park, as it was predominantly white. He had heard that Vicki’s friends called the Negro kids horrible names and Vicki had been raised to believe Negro kids were beneath her too. She didn’t know why they were supposed to be inferior, other than that they were a different color. Santiago was Hispanic and Latino, and he had experienced his fair share of prejudice, even though it was not as severe as what the Negro kids faced. He wondered if Vicki’s parents, who had gotten saved, had changed their views on race.

“Yeah, that’s me. Santiago. What’s your deal, Vicki?”, he asked, catching the tennis ball mid-bounce and holding it still—the rubber warm from his palm.

Vicki narrowed her eyes. “My deal? What’s yours? You think just ‘cause you’re some star athlete, you can talk to me like I’m some project?”

Before then, Vicki and her friends had put firecrackers in a few mailboxes and run away, and they tipped over a few garbage cans. Although Santiago didn’t live in the trailer park, he recalled hearing the explosions in a few mailboxes near Prospect Gardens, followed by laughter fading into the night. Now, though, her family’s newfound faith made her feel like an outsider, even at home.

“I’m just trying to figure out why you’re acting like I’m the one with the problem,” Santiago said, rolling the tennis ball between his palms.

“Oh, you wouldn’t get it,” Vicki said, slamming her locker harder than necessary. The metallic clang reverberated down the hall.

Jay noticed the tension between Santiago and Vicki as they parted ways in the hallway. As a Christian, he knew that the human race was equal in God’s eyes, descended from Adam and Eve. As a Negro, he knew what it was like to face prejudice, so Santiago, as a Hispanic and Latino, could understand discrimination, albeit to a lesser degree.

“You, okay man?”, Jay asked as he approached Santiago, nodding toward Vicki’s retreating figure.

“Hey, Jay. Yeah, I’m fine. Just trying to figure out what her problem is,” Santiago said, adjusting the strap of his backpack.

Mary and Gracie saw Vicki storm past them in the hallway, her fists clenched tight enough to turn her knuckles white. Mary had heard that Vicki had a rebellious streak much like Aneurin did, as both did drugs, smoked, and drank, even though they didn’t know each other well. Aneurin had met Vicki a few times, but their interactions were brief and usually ended in arguments. Aneurin even didn’t go as far as putting firecrackers in mailboxes, but he’d been caught smoking behind the bleachers more than once, and even bringing a bottle of whiskey to school.

“Perhaps, Vicki, you should come to Youth group sometime. Youth pastor Jordan’s got some pretty interesting stuff to say about all of us being equal in God’s eyes, regardless of where we come from,” Gracie suggested gently.

Vicki stopped and turned, her eyes locking onto Gracie’s. “You really believe all that?” she asked, a hint of challenge in her tone.

Gracie nodded. “I do. And it’s not just something we say at church. It’s something that’s real and that can change how we see each other.”

Vicki rolled her eyes. "Yeah, right. Like that'll ever happen." She turned and disappeared into the crowd of students heading to their next class.

Santiago, Jay and Lionel, although not necessarily close friends, had a silent understanding that bonded them in a way that was hard to explain. Jay and Lionel were both Negroes, and Santiago was Hispanic, and all three had experienced the sting of prejudice, even if to varying degrees.

*

Even at Fairview Elementary School, although the challenges there were not as intense as the ones faced by the older kids at Prospect High or Lincoln Middle School, it had its own set of issues.

Santiago’s little brother and sister, Edaurdo and Rosa, were 8 and 5, in the third grade and kindergarten respectively. Rosa was both excited and nervous about her first year of school. She had heard stories from Edaurdo about the fun games and the kind teachers.

Judd’s little brother and sister, 8 year old twins Marc and Marcie, both had been tremendously athletic. While Judd had lost interest in sports after Little League, Marc and Marcie had seemed interested in every sport imaginable. Even though they weren’t necessarily the jock as Santiago was, they had a lot of energy.

Ronnie and Luci, Clarice and Lionel’s little brother and sister, were also 8 and 5, in the 3rd grade and kindergarten respectively. Luci was both excited and nervous about her first year of school, but Ronnie took his role as the big brother very seriously, making sure she felt included and safe.

There were also two 5th grade boys who were best friends, Rayford “Raymie” Steele, Jr. and Ryan Daley. They had grown up on the same street, one living on each end. They had begun kindergarten together, and now they were in the 5th grade. They were as close as brothers. Ryan was an only child, and Raymie may as well have been. His only sister, Chloe, was eight years older and was in her sophomore year at Stanford University. Ryan and Raymie had a lot in common. Each had a father who was too busy for him. These guys needed each other. Ryan was a little shorter and thicker than Raymie, who was slender and tall and dark like his father. Ryan was a blond and the better athlete of the two. Raymie’s dad was Rayford Steele Sr., an airline pilot for the big planes, the 747s, while Ryan’s dad was a sales manager for a big plumbing fixture company.

There was another 5th grader in Raymie and Ryan’s class, Brianna, whose mom Jackie hosted the Women’s Bible Study at her house that Irene and Donna both attended, and her dad Dooley attended the Men’s Bible Study as well as the Men’s Pancake Breakfast once a month with Carl. Raymie and Brianna knew each other since pre-school, as they’ve often played together in the park while Irene and Jackie would be chatting away. Brianna had been in Raymie and Ryan’s class since kindergarten, and although she wasn’t exactly one of their ‘inner circle’ friends, she was friendly with both of them.

***

The public schools hadn’t allowed Bible reading and prayer time in the classes since 1962, when the Supreme Court ruled that organized prayer in school was unconstitutional. Over the years, public education had gotten worse— evolution was taught as fact, creationism as myth, history stripped of its spiritual context, and recently, gender ideology was pushed on kids as young as kindergarten.

There wasn’t anything wrong with science— it's a way to explain how things work. There wasn’t anything wrong with history— it’s a way to understand the past and how civilizations developed. But the idea of evolution as blind chance and history as random events— that God had no hand in any of it— was unsettling especially for Christian parents.

There was nothing wrong with a girl wanting to be a tomboy or a girly girl. Elain, who was now away in college, was bit of a tomboy who was outgoing and liked sports, while Mary, who was 12 and shy, was a girly girl who liked figure skating, gymnastics, ballet, dolls, and tea parties. It was just what they each chose. There had been girls who were also both, and that was fine, too. Marcie was in the Little Leagues sports with Marc, and she had a collection of dolls at home, and she liked both equally. But the thought of gender ideology being taught even in the elementary schools was unsettling.

It was no wonder many parents not just in Mount Prospect or in Chicago or even in Illinois but across the US, were choosing homeschool as an option for their children. Christian schools and private schools were expensive, and public schools were getting worse. Each morning, Carl and Donna prayed for their kids- especially Samuel, Aneurin, and Mary- before they left for school. They prayed that they would be protected from the influences of the world and that they would stand firm in their faith.

Chapter 10

*
Carl stepped into the Global Weekly office, and clocked in for his morning shift. He then approached a woman named Verna Zee, Lucinda’s secretary. He could tell she was a no nonsense woman, and although she was a secretary, it looked as if she had been there for years. She was known to be feisty, loud and commanding, and she liked wearing comfortable footwear.

“Verna, is my office still where I left it?”, Carl asked, leaning against the reception desk as Verna clicked through a spreadsheet without looking up.

“Why, of course it is, Mr. Editorial Assistant”, Verna said without missing a keystroke. “You wouldn’t move it overnight, would you? Unless those two assistants of yours- a young man with sandy hair and a young woman with a mixture of Caucasus and African-American features- decided to overhaul your workspace.”

“Oh, come on, Verna. You know that the senior editor Global Weekly Chicago office Lucinda and I are both off on the weekends, mainly because the weekends are the time we spend with our families, and of course, Sundays are reserved for church. Besides, my two assistants— Derek and Elsie— are not reckless enough to rearrange the office without my approval. You wouldn’t do that with Lucinda’s office unless she suggested it, would you?”

“Of course not, Mr. Burton. Mrs. Washington is particular about her space unless she decides otherwise.”

“Well, I better get into my office. Derek and Elsie should be arriving by nine,” Carl said, straightening his tie.

At the schools, students had learned about how Israel, especially the Jews, had always had enemies throughout history. Then, obviously, what had just happened was no different. Except now, Israel’s enemies had been miraculously destroyed by fire and hail—and yet not a single Jew had been harmed.

"So as you may or may not have heard", said a teacher at Lincoln Middle School, "Russia has teamed up with Libya, Iran, Ethiopia, Northen Sudan, and other countries and launched missiles and airstrikes on Israel. However, there was rain and chunks of ice that stopped the explosions. Your assignment is to write an essay about what you think might have happened. Are there any questions?"

Santiago raised his hand, fingers tapping restlessly against his desk. "Didn't Russia have nukes? Why wouldn't they just—"

"Because," the teacher interrupted, adjusting his glasses, "all electronics failed mid-flight. Bombs dropped like rocks. Eyewitnesses say the pilots' headsets crackled once—something about 'the God of Israel'—then static."

“Maybe it’s weather change or something new in science we haven’t discovered yet”, Mary said softly from the back row.

The teacher shook his head. “No atmospheric conditions explain hailstones selectively crushing military aircraft while leaving civilian buildings untouched. Your homework assignment— find a news article that offers any plausible theory.”

“It was an act of God- Ezekiel 38. That’s the only explanation,” Jay muttered beside Mary, flipping through his Bible app—highlighted verses glowing against the darkened screen.

Even at Prospect High School, students had learned the same thing, and they were assigned to write an essay about it. Aneurin raised his hand in his freshman class, and the teacher asked, "You have a question, Burton?"

"Well, perhaps, can you tell us what you think it is?", asked Aneurin, drumming his fingers on the desk.

The teacher took a moment before responding. "I'm not here to interpret the events for you, Burton. But I will say this: the situation in the Middle East has been tense for a long time, and we must remain open-minded to the various explanations that may come forth. As we have learned, Israel has always had enemies. This would be no exception. As for what might have caused the ice and rain, a weather phenomena mixed with something supernatural.“

"Supernatural, huh? So you think God came down and did this Himself?"

“Burton, this isn’t theology class. But since you asked—yes, some might call it supernatural. Others might call it coincidence. Your job is to examine the data objectively. Your homework assignment, class, is to find primary sources— articles, survivor testimonies, satellite footage—and analyze them for logical inconsistencies.”

**
Carl’s two assistants Derek, his sandy hair sticking up in sleep-deprived tufts, and Elsie, a strawberry blond young woman with a bright smile, approached his office with their tablets. “Carl, the Pentagon just released new satellite footage of Russia’s collapsed forces. Even Al Jazeera’s reporting eyewitnesses heard Aramaic chants right before the electronics failed”, Derek said, his knuckles whitening around the tablet’s edge.

“What are the odds?”, Elsie asked, tapping her tablet awake—a grainy video flickered into view: parachute-less Russian pilots plunging into the Sea of Galilee, their screams swallowed by wind.

“Well, Derek, Elsie, you know how I’ve been sharing about my faith. This is Ezekiel 38, plain as day. Prophetic fulfillment doesn’t come with odds—it comes with certainty”, Carl said, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“But not everyone would say that, Carl, would they?”, Derek asked, a skeptical twitch in his eyebrow as he scrolled through his tablet.

“No, not everyone would. The media’s already spinning it as atmospheric anomalies. Though Lucinda and I both believe it was a supernatural intervention.”

“So you really believe God stepped in like this? Personally, I mean. Not just church-talk”, Elsie asked, tapping her tablet to pause the footage.

“Of course, I do. It’s not just something we say in church. I saw things in Jerusalem—things that don’t make sense unless you believe in a God who steps into history.”

“Carl, you believe God intervened for Israel”, Derek said slowly. “What’s the deal with Ezekiel? Why now?”

“Well, about 1/3 or 1/4 of the Bible is prophecy. Many have already been fulfilled— the Messiah born of a virgin in Bethlehem, performing miracles, being rejected by His people, crucified just outside Jerusalem, buried, risen three days later, ascended to heaven— all predicted centuries beforehand. Ezekiel 36-37? Fulfilled in 1948 when Israel became a nation again. Ezekiel 38-39? That’s Russia and her allies invading Israel— and failing miserably. There are many more prophecies still to be fulfilled, though.”

Derek blinked at Carl’s words. "So you're saying—"

Elsie interrupted, leaning forward, her curls catching the fluorescent office light. "Hold on. If God's stepping in now, why didn't He stop Auschwitz?"

“I know it’s hard to understand,” Carl said, leaning against his desk. “But free will means evil happens. You see, when God first created the world, it was perfect. The very two first people, Adam and Eve, had a special relationship with Him—they could walk and talk with Him in the garden. But when they chose to disobey, sin entered the world—and with it, suffering. That’s why Jesus had to come—to undo the curse.”

Derek and Elsie exchanged glances—the kind that carried whole conversations in the silence between them. "But the Jews didn't even ask for this," Derek said, tapping the frozen image of Russian tanks swallowed by hailstones. "Half of Israel's secular. Why would God intervene for people who don't believe in Him?"

“True, but the Jews are still God’s chosen people,” Carl said. “Think of it like a parent spanking their child. The kid might not understand it in the moment, but it’s done out of love—to correct, not destroy.”

“You’ve spanked your children?”, Elsie asked, glancing at the framed photo of Carl’s family taken this last Christmas.

“Sure I have. Robert, Oliver, Elain, Samuel, Aneurin, and Mary- they all got spanked at one time or another. It’s an act of discipline, not anger. There’s a difference between the two.”

“Hmm, parenting must be rough, huh?,” Derek asked, rubbing his own palm absentmindedly as if remembering childhood discipline.

“It sure is. I’m sure you both have parents who would say the same.”

Carl enjoyed having a conversation with them— not just as assistants, but as people. He especially liked talking to Elsie — not in a romantic way, as he was married with 6 children and he would never dream of being unfaithful to Donna—but as a mentor. He had a fatherly instinct to guide and teach, and he felt as though Elsie was a potential believer. He also enjoyed talking with Derek, for he was intelligent, witty, and funny— and even saw him as a potential believer as well.

*
Josiah was adjusting a patient's IV while his co-worker checked vitals. As an RN, Josiah had worked countless overnight shifts—but none like this. The emergency room hummed with a different energy tonight, an undercurrent of hushed conversations and furtive glances at the overhead televisions replaying footage of Russia's obliterated fleet.

“So Josiah, do you think God got your attention with what happened in Israel?”, asked the doctor, adjusting his stethoscope with a hollow chuckle. Josiah exhaled through his nose, watching the cardiac monitor trace green peaks—steady, unlike his thoughts.

“I was raised Jewish, and I do believe God protects Israel,” Josiah said, pressing his thumb against the IV tubing to adjust the drip rate. “But whether this was divine intervention—I don’t know.”

The doctor exhaled through his nose, scribbling a note on the chart. “Your brother-in-law Silas works for the Mossad, doesn’t he? What’s their take?”

“The Mossad is trained to analyze geopolitical patterns—not miracles,” Josiah said, smoothing the patient’s blanket with a practiced hand. The smell of antiseptic hung thick between them. “My sister, Phoebe, married him—Silas Baurchus— before they’ve moved to Israel.”

“And have you talked with your sister since the attack?”

“I did. She said that no one was injured or killed in the attack. The chunks of ice and fire only destroyed the Russian planes and Hamas bunkers—not a single Israeli home was touched. She didn’t call it a miracle. Just ‘unexplained phenomena’.”

The doctor nodded sympathetically. "It's a miracle, really. Honestly, Josiah, I'm surprised you're not more shaken." The hospital intercom crackled with a code blue announcement somewhere distant, its urgency muffled by layers of corridors. Josiah's fingers lingered on the clipboard, tracing the edge where Silas' last email—printed hastily before his shift—still protruded slightly from beneath patient charts. “Josiah, how about we take a break in the lounge?”

Josiah nodded, and finished priming the IV bag, the saline sloshing gently as he hung it back on the pole. In the lounge, he made himself some tea, the sharp scent of bergamot cutting through the lingering smell of antiseptic. He had tried coffee once and it had never sat right with him—too bitter for his taste. As he was Pakistani Jew, tea was staple in Pakistan, so tea was his beverage of choice. He flipped idly through Silas’ email again—the Mossad’s dry assessment of “strategic anomalies” and “unverified atmospheric disturbances”—but none of the words explained the footage looping on the lounge television: Russian jets streaking from the sky in flames while Tel Aviv’s skyline remained untouched.

Samuel, Aneurin, and Mary, had come home from school later that afternoon, each from their respective buses. Samuel and Aneurin’s bus arrived first, its diesel exhaust lingering in the cold air as they trudged up the driveway, their breaths forming clouds. Mary’s bus pulled up minutes later, and she stepped off, her boots crunching through the fresh snow.

Donna was fixing dinner in the kitchen, stirring a pot of pickle soup, also known as zupa ogórkowa, which was a Polish soup, while the scent of fresh bread wafted from the oven.

“Our junior social studies class gave us an assignment on Russia’s attack,” Samuel said, shrugging off his coat in the mudroom. His gloves left damp streaks on the wooden bench as he tossed them down. “Teacher wants us to analyze ‘plausible explanations’—like it wasn’t obvious.”

“Really? Our freshman social studies class was assigned the same thing,” Aneurin said, rolling his eyes as he kicked off his snow-crusted boots. “Teacher called Russia’s failed attack ‘supernatural’—like that’s a legit academic explanation.”

“And so did our seventh grade social studies at Lincoln Middle School”, Mary said, peeling off her mittens and letting them dangle from her coat sleeves. "Why would the schools all assign the same thing?"

Donna wiped her hands on her apron, frowning at the steam rising from the soup pot. “Because no one knows how to explain it, Mary. Not really.” The scent of dill and sour cream thickened the air as she gave the soup another stir, the wooden spoon scraping against the pot’s enameled edges.

“Mom, do you know if the Russian attack on Israel was brought up in the classes at the elementary schools?", asked Samuel, pulling his laptop from his backpack with a metallic clatter of zippers.

“I’ve heard that it was brought up in the third, fourth, and fifth grade classes—but they kept it simple,” Donna said, tapping the wooden spoon against the pot’s rim before setting it down. “It wasn’t brought up in kindergarten through second grade.”

Samuel figured that, of course, kindergarten, 1st and 2nd grade kids wouldn't be assigned something like this— they were still learning how to read and write. The whole thing about Russia attacking Israel and then being destroyed by fire and hail was pretty complicated to explain to little kids. Then of course, surely the homeschooled kids, regardless of what grade they were in, must have learned something about it— but Samuel wasn’t sure how much.

*
Everett Jr and Ronnie had gone to Everett Sr’s garage after completing their homework, where Everett Sr started fixing the old pickup’s carburetor while Ronnie handed him tools.

“Hey boys. You’re here to help as usual after school?”, Everett Sr. said, wiping grease from his hands onto an already stained rag.

“And after homework. Homework comes first, Dad”, Everett Jr said, handing his father the socket wrench with a grease-smudged palm.

“Why, yes, of course. So what did they talk about at school today?”

“We’re assigned to write an essay about what happened in Israel”, Ronnie answered, handing Everett Sr. a pair of pliers. “Some are saying Russia just got unlucky, but we know that it’s Ezekiel 38-39, right? Chunks of fire and hail just don’t fall out of nowhere.”

Everett Sr. chuckled under his breath, twisting a bolt snug with practiced ease. “You’re right, Ronnie—fire and hail don’t just ‘happen’ when your enemy’s tanks are lined up like bowling pins. Everett, have you started looking at college applications yet?”

Everett Jr., as a junior, was already looking at colleges, considering the pros and cons of larger universities. He leaned against the workbench, wiping his hands on a rag. "I’ve actually been thinking about joining the military.”

“Oh, really? Do you know what branch?”

“I’m not sure yet,” Everett Jr. said, turning a rusted bolt between his fingers before dropping it into the parts tray with a metallic clink. “Maybe the Air Force or the marine corps. Besides, I could get to university later with a military discount.”

“That’s true, you could. Whichever you choose, your mother and I are proud of you,” Everett Sr. said, sliding the wrench back into its slot on the pegboard.

Everett, Jr, nodded, exhaling sharply through his nose as he watched his father tighten the last bolt—the rhythmic squeak of metal against metal filling the silence.

As soon as work was finished, Everett Sr and the boys headed back to the house, the scent of engine oil clinging to their clothes. Everett Jr paused on the porch steps, watching his breath curl in the cold air, his thoughts drifting between fighter jets and dorm rooms. Inside, the smell of roasted chicken and rosemary wrapped around them like a warm blanket—his mother’s cooking, predictable as sunrise.

****
Santiago worked on his homework at the kitchen table, while Amaya was fixing tacos for dinner, and Horatio was looking over his lesson as a professor of literature at Concordia University Chicago.

“Dad, did they talk about the Russian air strikes in Israel at university today?”, Santiago asked, tapping his pencil against his math notebook.

“In my first seminar, yes,” Horatio said, flipping a page in his worn Norton Anthology without looking up. “A doctoral candidate argued it was an atmospheric anomaly—said Russian jets have faulty fuel lines in cold weather. Never seen a man so determined to explain away hailstones.”

“They didn’t talk about it in my class”, Rosa said. As she was only in kindergarten, her teacher didn’t mention the Russian attack—but Rosa had overheard older kids whispering about fire falling from the sky during recess.

“What about you, Eduardo? Did they mention it in your class?”

Eduardo, who was 8 and in the third grade, looked up from his geography worksheet. “Mrs. Alvarez said it was a ‘geopolitical anomaly,’ whatever that means.”

Soon, dinner was served, and Horatio said grace in Spanish. The tacos were served with a side of rice and beans, and Amaya poured horchata into their glasses, the cinnamon scent mingling with the earthy aroma of cumin from the meat.

As soon as dinner was over, the boys hurried to wash the dishes—Santiago scrubbing plates while Eduardo meticulously dried each one while Rosa went to play with her dolls upstairs in her room. Soon after, Horatio took Santiago to basketball practice at Lincoln Middle School, while Amaya stayed home, helping Eduardo with his homework and Rosa with her coloring.

Chapter 11

**

As the three Burton children went to work on their respective assignments, Carl had come home from work at Global Weekly Chicago office. Samuel looked up from his laptop. “Dad, do you think Russia’s attack on Israel was Ezekiel’s prophecy fulfilled?” His fingers hovered over the keyboard, the screen casting a faint blue glow across his face.

Carl unknotted his tie with one hand. “Son, when nations align exactly as Scripture predicted—Russia, Iran, Libya—and then their weapons fail catastrophically?” He exhaled sharply, the lines around his eyes deepening. “That’s not coincidence. That’s divine intervention.”

“Daddy, did they talk about it at Global Weekly?”, Mary asked as she flipped open her homework binder, her pencil tapping against the edge like Morse code.

“They did, honey. Editors debated whether to call it ‘unprecedented weather patterns’ or ‘divine retribution.’”

As soon as homework was finished, dinner was served— Donna ladling steaming bowls of pickle soup while Carl sliced the rye bread still warm from the oven. Carl said grace, and afterward, Samuel said "Mom, Dad, I've been thinking...if Ezekiel 38 was fulfilled today, what happens next? Is the Rapture coming soon?"

“I can’t tell you that, son. ‘No one knows the day or hour,’” Carl said, tearing a piece of bread, the steam curling between his fingers. “But scripture says there’ll be signs—like birth pains—getting closer together.”

Mary’s spoon clinked against her bowl, her brow furrowing as she glanced between Carl and Samuel. “But if the Rapture happens tomorrow—”

“It won’t,” Aneurin cut in, stabbing a pickle slice with his fork. “People have been predicting the end, and look—we’re still here.”

“Now, now you two, let’s not argue at the dinner table,” Carl said, taking a sip of lemon sparkling water— as he wasn’t fond of soda or beer, though he was Welsh, as beer was often associated with Wales. Donna passed the bread basket to Aneurin, her fingers lingering a moment too long on the woven wicker—the kind of silent maternal gesture that carried whole arguments in its hesitation.

As soon as dinner was finished, Samuel helped clear the dishes while Aneurin and Mary went to change into their pajamas. As soon Samuel was done with clearing the dishes, he went to change into his pajamas afterwards. Then the three kids went into the family room, Mary holding Rosie her pink bear against her chest, as Samuel turned on the smart TV. He turned on Apple TV+, and selected Charlie Brown, just something to get their minds off today's developments.

Carl went to check on the three kids in the family room, and chuckled as he saw Lucy yanking the football away from Charlie Brown. Even in a world falling apart, some things never changed. Mary clutched Rosie tighter, her socked feet tucked beneath her on the couch.

*

Antonio “Tony” Salazar, who was one of the flight attendants for Pan-Con 747, a veteran and passenger favorite, had invited Robert over for coffee that morning, as neither of them had flight schedules. A family man, he was funny and entertaining and helpful, seemingly a ball of indefatigable energy with a great smile. He was just one of those types who appeared happiest when busy and helping people. Tony had actually turned down a promotion to senior flight attendant, citing his pleasure with his current role as well as family responsibilities that made him want more control over his own schedule. Robert actually enjoyed Tony’s company—Tony was married with three kids, as well as a devout Christian and even though Robert wasn’t interested in religion, he admired Tony’s integrity.

Robert arrived at the Salazar’s house, knocked on the door, and Tony answered. “Robert, man, come on in,” he said, stepping aside and gesturing toward the living room.

“Thank you for inviting me,” Robert said, stepping through the doorway and catching the scent of freshly ground coffee beans—Colombian, if he had to guess. The Salazar living room was warm in a way that had nothing to do with the thermostat; framed photos of Tony’s kids lined the mantel, and a worn Bible lay open on the coffee table beside a half-empty mug.

“They’re your children?”, Robert asked, nodding toward a framed photo of Tony’s family at the beach, the sunset smearing gold across their faces.

“Oh yes, they are. They’re in school now, and my wife’s gone shopping,” Tony said, chuckling as he scooped coffee grounds into a French press. “The kids especially love Sunday School— keeps them occupied while Elena and I are in church service.”

Robert chuckled, running a thumb along the edge of the photo frame—the glass cool under his fingertips. The two boys and a girl in the picture were smiling, their arms slung over each other's shoulders. "Your youngest, she must love baseball," he said, nodding at the girl’s cap. “Is she a Cubs fan or White Sox?”

“She likes both, actually. I took her to Wrigley Field last month and she cheered louder than I did when the Sox scored,” Tony said, pouring hot water into the press with a slow, deliberate motion. Steam coiled upward, blurring his grin.

“I am more of a football person myself though,” Robert admitted, watching the coffee grounds bloom in the press. The liquid darkened like storm clouds, releasing a rich, earthy aroma. “Mary—my youngest sister—she’s the baseball fanatic in our family. She loves ice skating, gymnastics, ballet, baseball, tea parties, and dolls. She’s like a tornado of interests. Oh, and she’s also a vegetarian, opting for veggie dogs at Cubs games.”

“Ah. A vegetarian, eh? Well, there are sure a lot of vegetarians and vegans these days. We know about this from our international flights.”

"Yeah. Flying international, you notice things like that. I think after 9/11, the flights from state to state stopped serving meals altogether— only international flights still serve meals."

“ So Robert, you’ve said on one of our flights that you used to attend church. But you don’t anymore?”

“Yes, I did when I was a little boy. Then, it was just something we did—like brushing teeth.”

“So what happened? Just grew out of it?”

“I guess you could say that. I’m like most people with busy lives—too preoccupied to ponder eternity. Besides, faith never stuck with me like it did with two of my brothers and one of my sisters. Just wasn’t wired that way.”

“You grew up in Mount Prospect, right? Ever found a church closer to home?”

“No, it’s not my thing. I’m not a religious person- not hot or cold about it. Just somewhere in the middle.”

Tony poured coffee into the mugs. “Oh, I got cream and sugar if you want.”

“Oh, no. You know that I like it black.” However, when Robert took a sip, it was lukewarm. “You don’t drink coffee room-temperature, do you?”

“Oh, no, mine is hot! I poured that from a coffee pitcher that had been setting out for awhile.” Tony chuckled, shaking his head as he pushed his own steaming mug toward Robert. “I thought I use a teaching moment. You know, like Jesus and the lukewarm church in Revelation?”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Well, people like to drink their coffee or tea either hot or cold, but no one likes it lukewarm. Why? Because what is typically used to brew coffee or tea?"

Robert thought for a moment before answering. "Water, right?”

“Correct. To brew hot coffee or hot tea, you boil water and to make iced coffee or tea, you use cold water. Lukewarm water? It exists, but nobody wants it. Same with faith. Hot- being on fire- or cold- refreshing-, God can work with—but lukewarm? That’s the worst.”

"So now Jesus cares about beverage temperature? That's the problem with religion—everything's a metaphor, but nobody can agree what any of it actually means."

“How about I pour this lukewarm coffee down the drain and pour you a hot cup?”

Tony took Robert’s mug and poured the lukewarm coffee down the sink with exaggerated care, the liquid swirling dark against stainless steel. He refilled the mug from the French press, steam curling into the air between them, and slid it back.

Robert wrapped his hands around the mug, the heat seeping into his palms. He took a sip—bitter, scalding, undeniably alive— hot coffee, hot conviction. It was true that people preferred their coffee or tea either hot or cold, and no one liked lukewarm. As his father Carl was Welsh who drank tea, Robert had grown up learning that tea was meant to be either piping hot or ice-cold, but never tepid. Lukewarm liquid was useless—like faith without action, belief without transformation.

****

At the Global Weekly Magazine Chicago Office, Lucinda had insisted that Buck visit her the next time he came through the city. It had not been that long since his story ran on the abortive Russian invasion of Israel. “You know you need to talk to me,” she had e-mailed him.

She was right. And though she refused to call Cameron by his nickname “Buck”, he loved seeing and talking with her. She was like a second mother. She was beloved by her employees, to whom she was ferociously loyal. They especially seemed to appreciate that when she was elevated from their ranks to be their superior, she had not moved to a corner office. Carl was impressed by her humility, and he was glad to have her as his supervisor.

“Buck, good to see you again”, Carl said, shaking Buck’s hand firmly, his Welsh accent softening the consonants.

“Carl. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”, Buck replied, returning the handshake with a quick squeeze.

“Yes, it has.” Then he gestured to Derek and Elsie, who were seated at their desks, typing away at their laptops. “You remember Derek and Elsie, right?”

“You’ve mentioned them, Carl. But I don’t believe we’ve met properly,” Buck said, nodding toward Derek and Elsie.

“Well, Derek, Elsie, may I introduce the youngest senior writer for Global Weekly, Cameron ‘Buck’ Williams,” Carl said, gesturing toward Buck with the practiced formality of a diplomat.

“Nice to meet you”, Derek said, glancing up from his laptop screen—his fingers still hovering over the keys like he was itching to dive back into his work.

“Hi”, Elsie said, blinking up from her desk.

“Mr. Burton, Mr. Williams”, a spike-haired young woman said, “Mrs. Washington wishes to see you now.”

“Thank you, Alice. We’ll head right in,” Carl said, smoothing his tie before leading Buck down the hallway—their footsteps muffled by industrial carpet that smelled faintly of lemon cleaner and old paper.

Buck told Lucinda and Carl that Chaim Rosenzweig, an avowed agnostic like himself, had put him in touch with religious scholars. Lucinda and Carl were both devout Christians, and hearing Buck’s intellectual curiosity about prophecy was fascinating to them.

Had he not been there in Israel and seen the event himself, he would not have believed it. And it took more than he had in him to get any reader of Global Weekly to buy it or read it its webpage either. Editors and readers had their own explanations for the phenomenon, but Buck admitted, if only to himself, that he became a believer in God that day. Jewish scholars pointed out passages from the Bible that talked about God destroying Israel’s enemies with a firestorm, earthquake, hail, and rain. He was stunned when he read Ezekiel 38 and 39 about a great enemy from the north invading Israel with the help of Persia, Libya, and Ethiopia. More stark was that the Scriptures foretold of weapons of war used as fire fuel and enemy soldiers eaten by birds or buried in a common grave.

“What would I find there but more stuff to look at out of more windows? The authority, such as it is, doesn’t come from the office. It comes from the heart”, Lucinda said as Carl and Buck approached her office.

“Cue the violins,” Buck said, and she just sat smiling and shaking her head.

“I read something in your piece, Cameron.”

“I figured you would.”

“Between the lines.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“God got your attention, didn’t He?”

Buck sat facing her in her cluttered digs, slouching uncomfortably in a straight-backed chair, his feet crossed on a corner of her desk. He nodded. Carl stood next to her, glancing through the files with his reading glasses perched low on his nose. The hum of the air conditioning mixed with the faint rustle of papers—an unspoken tension lingering beneath their casual postures.

“If you were my son, I’d whup you upside the head, sitting like that, tearing up your spine”, Lucinda said, eyeing Buck’s sprawled posture.

“You don’t still smack Lionel, do you?” Buck said, peeking at the photo of the smooth-faced youngster, 12 year old Lionel.

“Can’t catch him anymore, but he knows I can still take him.”

Buck turned to Carl, his fingers drumming against Lucinda’s desk with restless energy. "You don’t smack your daughter around, do you?"

Carl chuckled. "No, but I’ve spanked her. When Mary was little, she ran out into the street. I thought she’d get hit by a car. So I took her inside, and said, ‘Mary, you scared Daddy half to death! You must never run into the street!’ So I spanked her—just one good swat—and she cried as I hugged her, but she never ran into the street again. It was, of course, an act of discipline, not anger”, Carl said, adjusting his glasses, the lenses catching the fluorescent light.

“And there’s a difference between smacking your child and spanking them”, Lucinda added, leaning back in her chair with a creak. “One’s about anger—the other’s about love.”

“Ah, yes, of course. I understand”, Buck said, adjusting his posture slightly—though his foot still tapped incessantly against the desk leg.

“And I can still take you, Mister Senior Writer all up into your young self. Tell me where you found that Scripture you used in your cover piece. They watch me like a hawk, so I can hardly ever get away with that. Next thing you know, they’ll be letting you start proselytizing. You couldn’t call me? I’ve been in the Word longer than those old coots, and I see stuff in the Old Testament they’ve missed.”

“You’d have pointed me to the same passages?”

“’Course I would! You think that wasn’t the first thing that came to my mind when I heard of a massive attack gone bad? Prophesied, honey. Shouldn’t have surprised anybody who knew a thing about the Bible. Which you don’t.”

“I do now.”

“You don’t know much, but I daresay what you do know has shaken you to your core.”

“You got that right, Lucy.” She cocked her head and glared at him. “Lucinda.” She was anything but a Lucy; she had told him too many times to count.

“Cameron, why doesn’t your Ivy League head just admit you don’t know as much as you thought you knew, humble yourself a mile or two, and come to church with me and mine? For one thing, it’d be a cultural thing you’ve never experienced before. Even if our enthusiasm and our music and all overwhelm you, if you keep your ears—and your mind—open, you might just learn something from people you didn’t think had a thing to teach you.”

“Now don’t say that, Lucinda. I’ve told you and told you I’ve learned a lot from you.”

“God’s gonna get you yet, boy. I mean, you were right there when it happened. And then you read ancient texts that look like they could have been written yesterday. You can’t deny the miracle. You can’t deny the hand of God. You can’t even claim to still be an agnostic.”

Buck shook his head. “You’re right as always.”

“You’re just a step away from Jesus.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that. I can’t deny the supernatural in what happened. It makes no sense otherwise. But if God protected Israel—”

“If?”

“Okay, so why did God protect Israel, a nation that denies Jesus as the Messiah?”

“Humph. So you are thinking. Well, let me ask you this: would you rather have a God who treats His children like they deserve to be treated? The Bible calls the Jews His chosen people time after time after time. He’s not going to un-choose them. He’s going to do what He promised, regardless of how they respond.”

Carl nodded. “She’s right, Buck. God protected His people—even when they didn’t recognize Him. That’s grace.” He removed his glasses, the fluorescent light catching the faint smudges on the lenses.

Buck rubbed his temples, the hum of the office printer a dull counterpoint to his racing thoughts. Outside, snow blurred the Chicago skyline—the sa

Chapter 12

***

Donna attended the women’s Bible study at Jackie’s house with Irene, Mrs. Marshall, Mrs. Moise, Mrs. Thompson, Dawn, and Amaya.

Irene had made the difficult decision and pulled the trigger. Rayford had been attending church with her less and less and the spiritually reprobate Chloe was off at Stanford, sonIrene had switched churches, taking Raymie with her. How rich it was to sit under the teaching and preaching of the avuncular Vernon Billings at New Hope Village Church, to see Jackie every Sunday, and how Raymie loved everything about church.

That, she knew, bothered Rayford. He attended church no more than once every two months and slept in or golfed most Sunday mornings, then seemed to want to make up for it by urging Raymie to watch sports on television with him when he got home. The boy seemed to acquiesce reluctantly, and Rayford confided his misgivings to Irene.

“He doesn’t have to be a jock,” he said. “But does he have to turn every ball game into an opportunity to preach at me? If I wanted to know what he learned in Sunday school or church, I’d go.”

Irene held her tongue, which wasn’t easy. Not that long ago she would have immediately told him he ought to go. He had fallen wholly out of the habit, and the last time he had shown up on a Sunday morning was the previous Christmas, when Raymie had played a shepherd in the children’s drama. Rayford drove separately and slipped out as soon as Raymie’s part was over.

Irene had been tempted to rail against him, to demand to know who he thought he was . . . to ask him what he was so afraid of. But she was learning. Slowly, painfully, she was learning.

Jackie had urged her to go to the pastor for counseling about Rayford, and Reverend Billings had brought his own wife into the sessions—partly for appearances but also for her input. They had persuaded Irene that her best hope for Rayford was to stop nagging him. But Jackie’s own story of how she loved her husband into the faith was most powerful to Irene. That, she told the Billingses, was one reason she had to counter their suggestion that she try to get Rayford to come for counseling too.

Donna was glad that Irene made had the switch, and she admired her for it. She knew that Irene was praying earnestly for Rayford and Chloe, and she was praying for Robert, Aneurin, and Mary. Irene had shown Donna her written prayer list- *Ray, for his salvation and that I be a loving wife to him. Chloe, that she come to Christ and live in purity. Ray Jr., that he never stray from his strong, childlike faith.* Then she had listed the pastoral staff, political leaders, missionaries, world conflict, and several friends and other relatives. Donna had been convicted by Irene’s diligence.

“Ladies, have I ever show you my ‘war room’?”, Jackie asked, folding her hands over her Bible.

“No, I don’t believe you have”, Donna said, leaning forward slightly as Jackie rose from the couch with a quiet creak of the floorboards. The other women exchanged glances—some curious, some politely skeptical—while Irene smoothed her skirt, her fingers lingering on the fabric as if grounding herself.

“Well, it’s about time I show you,” Jackie said, smoothing her floral blouse before leading the group down the hallway.

She led them to the master bedroom and opened a walk-in closet no bigger than an airplane lavatory—except every inch of wall space was papered with handwritten Scriptures and Polaroids of people Jackie was praying for. Among them was Mary in her skating dress at last year’s competition with "Psalm 139:14" scribbled underneath in Jackie’s looping cursive. As Jackie was Mary’s skating coach, Donna appreciated in knowing that Mary was being prayed for.

“Jackie, how did you come to call this your war room? Did you get the idea from that movie by the Kendrick brothers— the one where the real estate lady learns the power of prayer from Miss Clara?”, Donna asked, tracing a fingertip over a Polaroid of Mary mid-spin, her skating dress a blur of sequins frozen in time.

“That’s right, Donna. I did. Prayer is a powerful weapon, and I decided I needed a designated battlefield. Scripture says we wrestle not against flesh and blood—so I took Ephesians 6 literally.”

Donna looked through the closet, and wondered if she should make a war room herself. She was well aware that Satan was an unseen yet real enemy, and had been praying for her family daily. However, she wondered if she should do more, and Jackie's war room was a good example. Was Satan the one who put cynicism in Robert, rebellion in Aneurin, insecurity in Mary? She didn’t know for sure, but she knew that prayer was the best weapon she had.

“Jackie, does the enemy know about your prayer closet?”, Donna asked before she could stop herself, her fingers brushing against a frayed index card pinned near the doorframe—*James 4:7: Resist the devil, and he will flee from you.*

“Oh yes, Donna. Satan knows about my war room, and when I kneel down to pray each morning and night, he trembles. He has no place here”, Jackie answered quietly, pressing a palm against the closet wall with its layers of verses curling at the edges.

Donna nodded, the faint scent of lavender from Jackie’s sachet mixing with the crisp paper smell of the handwritten verses. The women continued their Bible study, their discussion weaving seamlessly into prayer requests—some whispered, others bold. They’ve ended with prayer for each of their families and for one another.

******

Youth group resumed on Wednesday night, and with Carl’s permission, Samuel drove himself, Aneurin, and Mary, his sedan to youth group. Even though he had a driver’s license, Samuel still didn’t have his own car and relied on borrowing Carl or Donna’s cars when he was allowed to drive it. He pulled into the New Hope Village Church parking lot, and parked the car in the parking lot, which was already packed with cars, their headlights cutting through the thickening snowfall.

The three stepped inside the youth center, stomping snow from their boots onto the rubber mat. Jordan was setting up his tablet at the front, projector light flickering to Daniel 9 Time-clock chart on the screen.

Mary approached Jordan. "Hey, Jordan.”

Jordan looked up at Mary, his fingers pausing over the keyboard. "Hey, Mary”, he said with a warm smile. “You been thinking about what we talked about in Sunday school?"

"Sort of," Mary admitted, glancing at the chart. "But I keep wondering—if God protected Israel, why doesn't He... fix things here?"

“Maybe He is fixing things,” Jordan said quietly, clicking to the next slide. “Just not in ways we expect.”

“So what’s up with this time-clock thing?”

“I’ll be talking about a prophecy written on parchment, not punched into a clock,” Jordan said, tapping the keyboard to zoom in on Daniel 9’s cryptic timeline—the numbers glowed like coordinates on some divine GPS.

Youth group soon started—Jordan opened with prayer—and Samuel elbowed Aneurin as Jordan clicked to Daniel 9‘s seventy weeks prophecy, whispering, “Told you.” Aneurin rolled his eyes but leaned forward.

“Now, as you may have known, Babylon have destroyed Jerusalem,” Jordan began, tapping his tablet against his palm like a preacher with a worn Bible—each tap punctuating his words. “But Daniel isn’t just mourning bricks; he’s grieving the shattered covenant. And then—” The projector flickered, casting shadows across his face as the screen shifted to Hebrew script. “Seventy sevens. Not weeks on a calendar. Seventy *cycles*. A countdown to restoration. Now the Babylonian and Jewish calendar are different than our Gregorian one—”

“But how different are they?”, Aneurin asked, leaning forward in his chair.

“About 360 days per year. You know how you see Passover or Hanukkah fall at different times? The Jewish calendar is lunar—it drifts. It’s determined by the cycles of the moon on what day Passover begins and what day Hanukkah begins—but our Gregorian calendar is solar-based, so dates shift.”

“And what about the Julian Calendar?”, Santiago asked, leaning forward.

Jordan paused mid-click, the projector humming softly as the room held its breath. “The Julian Calendar is solar-based, just like ours—but it’s older. More rigid. That’s the calendar used in Russia and other Orthodox countries. You have to remember, though, that the calendar is man-made; prophecy isn’t. Creation scientists date Earth at six thousand years, while evolutionists say billions—but we can’t know for sure the exact year when God created the world. And we don’t know when the world will end; we just know what we’re told in Scripture: ‘of that day and hour no one knows.’”

“So where does the 70th week come in?”, Mary asked, her voice barely audible over the hum of the space heater in the corner.

“Well, listen to these verses.” Then Jordan read Daniel 9:24-27:

*Seventy weeks are decreed about your people and your holy city, to finish the transgression, to put an end to sin, and to atone for iniquity, to bring in everlasting righteousness, to seal both vision and prophet, and to anoint a most holy place. Know therefore and understand that from the going out of the word to restore and build Jerusalem to the coming of an anointed one, a prince, there shall be seven weeks. And for sixty-two weeks it shall be built again with squares and moat, but in a troubled time. And after the sixty-two weeks, an anointed one shall be cut off and shall have nothing. And the people of the prince who is to come shall destroy the city and the sanctuary. Its end shall come with a flood, and to the end there shall be war. Desolations are decreed. And he shall make a strong covenant with many for one week, and for half of the week he shall put an end to sacrifice and offering. And on the wing of abominations shall come one who makes desolate, until the decreed end is poured out on the desolator.*

The youth listened intently, their faces illuminated by the projector’s flickering glow—shadows deepening in the hollows of cheekbones and brows as Daniel’s ancient words settled over them.

“Notice what Daniel is saying—and what he isn’t,” Jordan said, tapping his tablet screen to highlight a phrase. The projector’s glare caught the faint tremor in his fingers. “Sixty-nine weeks pass between the decree to rebuild Jerusalem and the Messiah’s arrival. Nehemiah led that rebuilding, then 400 years of silence—until Jesus. Then He’s ‘cut off’—crucified—midweek. The clock stops. He was cut or pierced for our sins, and next thing you know, Jerusalem is destroyed by Rome—just like Daniel prophesied. Jesus also said how Israel would fall—and Rome would scatter God's people—but He promised they'd come back home. That’s what happened in 1948, when Israel became a nation again. Right now, we’re in the gap between week 69 and 70. So what’s left?”

“The Rapture of the church, right?”, Samuel asked—then immediately clamped his mouth shut, as if he’d blurted out an answer in math class before showing his work.

“Well, it’s true we are in the Church Age now, but—” Jordan paused as the projector flickered again, casting jagged shadows across the youth group’s faces. “Since people have different views on the Rapture-*timing*, let’s focus on what Scripture *does* make clear: Israel’s restoration—check—and the clock restarting when the Antichrist confirms a covenant. That’s week 70.” He tapped the slide, zooming in on Daniel 9:27, the Hebrew script pixelated under the glare. “The Antichrist, a world leader, is going to offer Israel—*specifically* Israel—a seven-year peace deal. That’s when the clock starts ticking again. Midway, he’ll break it—that’s the abomination of desolation—and the Great Tribulation begins.”

“Is there a difference between the Tribulation and the Great Tribulation?” Mary asked, her thumbnail now worrying a frayed edge of her jeans pocket.

“There actually is a difference, Mary,” Jordan said, tapping his tablet again—the screen switched to a split image of the Temple Mount and a UN podium. “Tribulation refers to general hardship—been happening since Adam. The Tribulation is going to be for seven years total. The first half—that’s the false peace— Jesus Himself called ‘the beginning of sorrows.’ But the Great Tribulation? Revelation 12 speaks of a war in heaven—and Satan’s enraged, knowing his time is short. Listen to this last verse”— *Then the dragon became furious with the woman and went off to make war on the rest of her offspring, on those who keep the commandments of God and hold to the testimony of Jesus.* “The woman here is Israel—and suddenly, halfway through the final week, Satan’s rage explodes. Notice who he is going to make war on— those who keep the commandments of God — I believe that’s referring to the Jewish remnant—and those who hold to the testimony of Jesus—that’s likely the Tribulation saints—some believe these could be Jews and Gentiles who come to Christ *after* the Rapture.”

“Why would Satan’s anger explode midway?” Aneurin asked, crossing his arms. “If he’s been around since Eden, what changes?”

“Well, true, Satan was cast out of Heaven at the beginning, but he still has access to God’s presence—like in Job, where he stands accusing us day and night. But Revelation 12 says he’ll be cast out *permanently*—no more accusations. That’s when his fury boils over. He will mercilessly persecute Israel and the Tribulation saints through the Antichrist and the False Prophet.”

“So will Satan still have access to Heaven during the first half?”, Mary asked.

“I don’t know if I have a good answer for that, but Scripture’s clear his power is limited by God— he’s actually part of the divine council, as the accuser— but Revelation 12 says he’ll be cast out midweek like a failed prosecutor. That’s what I believe is when the Antichrist will set up the abomination of desolation.”

“But didn’t Antichous IV do something similar thousands of years ago- when he sacrificed a pig on the sacred altar and set up idols? Daniel even predicted him, right?,” Samuel asked, remembering what he’d studied for his history paper.

"Antiochus IV was a type but not the fulfillment. He desecrated the Temple in 167 BC—Daniel predicted that. But Jesus referenced Daniel’s prophecy when warning about a future abomination. History rhymes, but prophecy echoes forward. Notice that the abomination of desolation happened before Christ’s first coming—and He said it would happen again before His second."

“So will the Antichrist sacrifice a pig like Antiochus?” Mary whispered. 

“I don’t know he will, but it is highly possible, as pigs are unclean for Jews. It would be one thing if he sacrifice a lamb—that would desecrate the Temple—but a pig would double the insult. Scripture doesn’t give details on how, only that the Antichrist will do it.” Jordan scrolled to a grainy photo of the Temple Mount—its golden Dome glinting under harsh midday sun. “See this? The Third Temple hasn’t been built yet, but when it is, the Antichrist will enter it and declare himself God.”

“What’s that building with the golden dome now?” Mary asked.

“The Dome of the Rock, which Muslims believe marks the spot where Muhammad ascended to heaven. As you can see, the Jewish Temple Mount and this Islamic shrine occupy the same contested ground. But recently, as I’ve been to Israel, Jews and Arabs have been working together quietly—some Orthodox rabbis even believe the Third Temple could be assembled—almost modular—without disturbing the Dome.”

“Meaning the Jews could rebuild their temple right next to the Arabs’ mosque”, Everett said, rubbing his chin.

“Exactly. And that’s where things could escalate fast. That temple could be rebuilt in about 72 hours, meaning in about three days.”

“But surely, the Arabs aren’t going to allow that,” Aneurin said, shifting in his seat.

“Perhaps not now, but desperation changes calculations. Israel’s been stockpiling Temple materials since the ‘80s—sanctified red heifers bred in Texas, Levites training in ritual purification. They’re preparing for a moment when politics and prophecy align.”

“So will this temple be rebuilt or after the Rapture?”, Samuel asked. 

“I can’t tell you that, but if I have to guess, I would say the Rapture happens *before* the Antichrist confirms the covenant.” Jordan paused as the projector’s hum deepened, the image of the Temple Mount dissolving into static for a second before snapping back into focus. “Scripture says the Holy Spirit—currently restraining evil—will be ‘taken out of the way.’ That’s when lawlessness explodes, and the Antichrist rises. Now I don’t believe the Holy Spirit is going anywhere—because God is omnipresent—but His restraining *ministry* will shift. People will still get saved even after the Rapture, so they got have the Holy Spirit convicting them—but He won’t be restraining evil like He does now.”

The youth group sat in silence, breath visible in the chill as Jordan’s last words settled over them like snowfall—thick and unnerving. “Now as you can see, God’s time clock isn’t man’s time clock,” Jordan finally said, tapping his tablet to dim the projector. “Daniel 9:24-27 are the most important verses to understand prophecy, yet most people—even pastors—skip over them. Prophecy doesn’t exist to scare us. It exists to *orient* us. Now let’s close in prayer.”

Jordan closed in prayer, his voice steady but fingers trembling slightly against the tablet’s edge—the way a surgeon’s hands might betray fatigue after a long operation.  As soon as he said amen, the room exhaled, chairs scraping linoleum in a discordant symphony of movement and murmured conversations. Mary approached Jordan while Samuel and Aneurin lingered near the snack table.

“Jordan, can I ask you something?”, Mary said, her voice low enough that the chatter near the snack table drowned her out.

Jordan tucked his tablet under his arm and nodded. “Sure thing. What’s on your mind, Mary?”

“Well, I was thinking, if the Rapture happens first, and then the Antichrist rises, wouldn’t that mean the church isn’t here to warn people?”

“Hmm, good question. If the Rapture happens first, then yeah—the Church won’t be around to warn people. But people will still get saved *after* the Rapture. The Bible says God will empower His two witnesses—either Moses and Elijah or Elijah and Enoch—who will prophesy in Jerusalem for 1260 days, meaning three and a half years. God will also raise up 144,000 Jewish evangelists—twelve thousand from each tribe—who will spread the Gospel worldwide. Three angels in Revelation 14 will proclaim the truth—one will preach the Gospel, another will announce Babylon’s fall, and a third will warn against taking the Mark of the Beast. Now it isn’t typical for an angel to preach the Gospel—but Jesus said the Gospel must be preached to all nations *before* the end comes.”

Samuel approached Mary, and asked, “You ready to go home?”

“Yeah. Just thinking,” Mary said. 

“Mary, if you ever want to talk, you know where I’ll be,” Jordan said with a smile.

Mary nodded at Jordan as she and the boys stepped outside. They got in Carl’s sedan—its windows fogging instantly with their breath—and pulled out of the church parking lot, tires crunching over fresh snow. Mary draped her pink lamb blanket over her, and Aneurin scrolled through his phone, while Samuel gripped the steering wheel with both hands and exhaled long and slow. The car's heater whirred softly as headlights pierced the falling snow ahead of them.

By the time they’ve reached home, Samuel pulled into the garage quietly, letting the engine idle for a beat before shutting it off as if the car, too, needed a moment to adjust to stillness. They emerged from the sedan, and Samuel closed the garage door. They went into the quiet house—only the hum of the refrigerator and the faint tick of the hallway clock greeted them. Carl sat at the kitchen table, laptop open, surrounded by printed articles circled in red ink, his reading glasses perched low on his nose. 

“Hey, Dad”, Samuel said, handing the car keys back with a deliberate clink onto the table. “You’re up late.”

Carl’s eyes flicked to the clock above the stove. 8:30pm wasn’t exactly late. "How was youth group?" he asked, fingers tapping the spacebar rhythmically.

“Pastor Jordan talked about Daniel 9:24-27. The seventy weeks thing,” Mary said, pulling off her mittens finger by finger.

“Ah. The seven year tribulation. That’s heavy theology for a Wednesday night.”

“It sure is”, Samuel said, leaning against the kitchen counter, “Jordan said something about the clock starting when Israel signs a peace treaty. You think that’s what Rosenzweig’s fertilizer is leading to?”

Carl exhaled slowly through his nose. “Economically? Possibly. Prophetically? Depends who you ask.” Then he turned to Mary. “How about you get ready for bed, sweetheart? You’ve had enough excitement for one night.”

Mary nodded mutely, padding down the hallway to her room. She put on her pink pajamas, went to brush her teeth, and climbed into bed with Rosie, and clutch the bear tightly as she tried to fall asleep.

Chapter 13

*

Lincoln Middle School’s hallway was bustling with students shuffling to first period when Mary looked at her geometry homework—the equations blurred into indecipherable symbols under her exhaustion. Jay approached her locker, his backpack slung over one shoulder.

“Hey, that was something Pastor Jordan talked about at youth group last night, wasn’t it?”, Jay said quietly, nudging Mary’s elbow as she struggled with her locker combination.

“Yeah, it was”, Mary whispered, glancing over her shoulder as kids pushed past them in the crowded hallway.

“Are you on your way to first period?”

“Yes. Geometry. I finished before youth group last night.”

Jay leaned against the locker beside hers, lowering his voice as a teacher walked past. “I saw the news this morning. Russia—just like Ezekiel said.” His fingers tightened around his backpack strap, knuckles whitening. “They’re saying it was freak weather, but—”

The bell rang overhead, sharp and insistent, and both Mary and Jay headed towards first period. Mary sat next to Gracie, whose fingers drummed anxiously against her desk. The teacher took attendance, then turned to the whiteboard. The lesson was on angles—acute, obtuse, right.

**

Samuel sat between Jared and Everett, Jr. during first period of Phycology at Mount Prospect High. The teacher, Mr. Shellenberger, was a tall, fleshy man with a generous nose and receding, wavy hair. He had a sonorous voice, a superior manner, and he loved to bestow his opinions on one and all. Samuel was actually impressed by him, even though he didn't agree with a lot of what he said.

“Alright, class, today’s topic is confirmation bias,” Mr. Shellenberger announced, perching on the edge of his desk with a dry-erase marker tucked behind his ear. His gaze swept the room, lingering just long enough on Samuel to make his neck prickle. “Why do people believe what they believe? Because facts support it—or because they *want* to?”

Samuel raised his hand. "Wouldn't confirmation bias also apply to people who *don't* want to believe something?"

“Mr. Burton, are you suggesting that denial requires the same cognitive energy as belief?” Mr. Shellenberger’s marker squeaked against the whiteboard as he scrawled *cognitive dissonance* in loopy cursive.

“My dad is the Editorial Assistant for the Global Weekly, so why would I believe something just because I *want* to?”

“I’m not sure I understand your question, Mr. Burton. But I will say this—facts don’t care about what you want to believe,” Shellenberger said, tapping the whiteboard with his marker. A faint chemical scent lingered in the air as he uncapped it again to underline *cognitive dissonance* twice.

Samuel and Jared glanced at each other—Shellenberger's smugness practically wafting off him like cheap cologne. Everett Jr. took slow notes, his pencil pressing deep grooves into the paper as Shellenberger continued, "Take Russia's so-called 'weather anomalies' over Israel. Some see divine judgment. Others see atmospheric conditions documented since—"

"Sir," Jared interrupted, raising his hand halfway before speaking. His voice carried just enough edge to make Everett Jr. look up sharply. "You're describing confirmation bias while dismissing eyewitness accounts from Russian soldiers who reported hail mixed with fire. Wouldn't ignoring firsthand testimony also be a form of bias?" The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting a sterile glow on Shellenberger's suddenly tight smile.

Across the room, Samuel tapped his pencil against his notebook—two quick, deliberate taps—as Jared’s question hung in the air. The scent of dry-erase markers and cheap floor wax mixed with something sharper: the acidic tang of adolescent adrenaline.

**

Lucille was on her way to her sociology lecture when she spotted Elain near the campus café, her fingers wrapped tight around a steaming mug. Elain ordered some tea, the sharp scent of bergamot cutting through the stale coffeehouse air—Lucille recognized it from their childhood, how Elain always drank Earl Grey when studying.

“How is that you drink tea?”, Lucille asked, sliding into the chair across from Elain.

“My dad is Welsh, so tea is usually a staple,” Elain said, her thumb tracing the rim of her mug—slow, methodical, like she was calibrating her next thought. “Though I do drink coffee every now and then.”

“Ah. So it’s cultural,” Lucille said, watching the steam curl from Elain’s cup like phantom script. The café’s espresso machine hissed behind them, a counterpoint to the low murmur of students debating midterm stress.

Elain got out her purple iPhone, and Lucille saw on her wallpaper a picture of Elain and Mary, taken this last Christmas break, clad in white and pink and holding Rosie. “Your sister?”, Lucille asked, nodding at the screen.

“Yes, and the only sister I have, along with four brothers”, Elain said, tapping her phone screen—the soft click of her nail against glass barely audible over the café’s espresso machine. “She’s more of a girly girl than I am, though— favorite color pink, favorite sports figure skating and baseball, only drinks tea, favorite ice cream strawberry with gummy butterflies.”

“Wow! Your sister is a girly girl yet she loves baseball? That’s unusual,” Lucille said, stirring sugar into her coffee—two precise clockwise circles—before glancing back at Elain’s phone.

“Well, baseball is a lot gentler than football—less concussions,” Elain said, swirling her tea with a silver spoon that caught the café’s recessed lighting in fractured glints. “Figure skating is a girly sport, sort of like ballet on ice.”

“Oh, the Winter Olympics is coming up real soon, isn’t it? Maybe Mary wants to watch—figure skating’s her thing, right?” Lucille asked, tapping her spoon against her coffee cup absently, the faint metallic ping blending with the café’s ambient chatter.

“I’m sure she will. She’s got the Olympics schedule circled in pink glitter on her calendar,” Elain said, her mouth quirking slightly as she pocketed her phone.

“And your favorite color is purple?”

“Yes, that’s right. I’m more of a tomboy myself, yet somehow purple feels like a compromise between ‘girly’ and ‘not too girly. What’s your favorite color?”

“I’ve always loved turquoise, you know—like ocean water when the sun hits it. I know we don’t have oceans in Illinois, though the closet is Lake Michigan,” Lucille said, tapping her spoon against her mug again—one soft clink—before glancing at the campus clock tower through the café window.

“Ah, Lake Michigan. Not exactly ocean waves, but at least we have something. The Great Lakes almost looks like an ocean,” Elain said, lifting her mug to her lips as a gust of wind rattled the café’s fogged windows.

Soon after, Lucille and Elain each went to their first period. Though Elain was about 2 years younger than Lucille, and Lucille was a junior and Elain a freshman, she actually enjoyed talking to Elain more than she had anticipated. Elain had a way of listening that made Lucille feel like she wasn’t just filling silence—like her words had weight.

**

Buck walked into Carl’s office, the Global Weekly Chicago office humming with low chatter and the clatter of keyboards beneath fluorescent lights. “Carl, you got a minute?”, Buck asked, leaning against the doorframe.

“Oh, yes, Buck. What can I do you for?”, Carl asked, his Welsh accent softening the vowels just enough to make Buck blink—like he’d suddenly remembered Carl wasn’t from Chicago. Then, of course, he remembered how at Princeton, Dirk mentioned he had a much older brother who worked for Global Weekly.

“About what you and Lucinda said the other day, do you really believe it was an act of God? I mean, what happened recently in Israel?”

Carl stroke his chin for a moment—the rasp of stubble audible in the sudden quiet between keyboard clatter—before answering. "I know what the media's calling it—freak weather patterns. But hail mixed with fire? That's Ezekiel chapter 38, Buck." He kept his voice low, aware of curious glances from interns at adjacent desks.

“Hmm. Did your brother ever tell you that I’ve been a deist? You know what that is, Carl?”

“Yes, I do. It’s the belief that God set the universe in motion but doesn’t intervene—like clockwork,” Carl said, setting down his pen with deliberate precision. The overhead lights reflected off its gold barrel, casting a thin streak of brilliance across his desk blotter. “But tell me, Buck—does a clockmaker ignore his own ticking if the gears begin to grind?”

Buck shifted his weight, the leather soles of his shoes whispering against the industrial carpet. He could hear the distant ping of an elevator arriving, followed by muffled voices. “Then you think this was divine intervention?”

“I only believe what the Bible says, Buck. Faith isn’t based on feelings or facts—it’s based on promises,” Carl said, tapping the worn leather cover of his desk Bible with a fingertip. A sudden gust from the air vent above sent a loose memo fluttering to the floor.

“You’ve heard what Lucinda said, right? About how God will get me?”

“Yes, I did, and I believe He will,” Carl replied, leaning forward slightly in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight. A loose paperclip on his desk caught the light, glinting like a tiny warning. “But hear this—if He’s calling you, Buck, it’s not to scold you. It’s to pull you out of the fire before it’s too late.”

Carl turned his Bible to Jude 23, his index finger tracing the words *save others by snatching them from the fire*. "You ever wonder," he said slowly, "if some fires are too big to snatch anyone from?"

“What fires are you referring to Carl?”

“Well, you’ve seen firefighters rescue people from burning buildings and put out the fire before it spreads, correct?”

“Yes, I have. I have even reported stories on those.”

“Well, there is actually a fire that not even the fire fighters can put out. That’s Hell, which Jesus Himself described as eternal fire—*unquenchable* fire. Revelation 20:15 says that anyone whose name isn’t found written in the book of life will be thrown into the lake of fire. That’s actually a really big deal, Buck. That’s why Jesus came—to rescue us from that. When Jude talks about ‘snatching from the fire,’ he’s talking about sharing the Gospel so people can be saved from eternity in the Lake of Fire.”

Buck's knuckles whitened around the edge of Carl's desk as the hum of the office HVAC cut out abruptly, leaving an eerie silence in its wake. Outside, the pigeons had vanished from the windowsill, replaced by the distant wail of sirens weaving through Chicago's grid—too many, too close.

*****

Ashton approached Tom who was at the coffee maker—the scent of burnt beans sharp in the air—and noticed how Tom's fingers twitched near his holster as another cop laughed too loudly down the hall. Tom actually liked Ashton— although only 24 years old, Ashton was bright and had the maturity than most rookies Tom had worked with over the years.

“Cleaver, I’ve been meaning to talk to you”, Tom said as he poured himself and Ashton each a cup of coffee.

“What is it, Fogarty?”, Ashton asked, wrapping his hands around the steaming cup—the heat biting into his palms, a stark contrast to the precinct’s stale chill.

“Have you ever worked with homicide before?”

“Well, that’s not even my department but I’ve helped Eddie with a few cases. You used to be with homicide, didn’t you?”

“Oh, yes, but it’s been a while. Did he ever tell you how he got to be in the police force?”

“Yes, he did. He was a ranger stationed in Syria, and got into the police academy with a military discount. I guess homicide must be fitting for all that combat experience.”

“You got that right. Eddie’s the youngest guy in Homicide, but I worked with him for years. Met him when he first came over. Energetic, smart, good team guy. A cop’s cop if you ask me.”

“So what makes you think I’d be any good in homicide?”

“Because you’ve got the same look Eddie had when he first started—like you’re already running scenarios in your head before they happen.”

“Well, maybe he and I can be partners someday or something.”

Tom chuckled. “He’s been partnered with Davis for a couple of years now—they’re tight. You ever noticed how homicide detectives always move slow, even when they don’t need to? It’s like they’re conserving energy for when the hammer drops.” He took a sip of coffee, grimacing at the bitterness before continuing. “But Eddie? He’s different. Keeps his eyes open even when he’s sitting still. You ever seen him at a crime scene?”

“Yes, he has brought me along a few times while solving a murder case.”

“Has he ever told you his real name?”

Ashton nodded. “Yes, Archibald Edwards. I guess it’s no wonder he goes by Eddie—sounds less like a British academic.”

Tom chuckled. "Eddie's got more layers than a Chicago winter. Did he tell you why he enlisted?"

Ashton shook his head, watching steam curl from his coffee like smoke signals. Outside, the precinct's ancient radiator hissed—a sound Eddie once joked reminded him of Syrian sandstorms.

“Syria must have pushed him to homicide,” Ashton said, turning his coffee cup slightly—a quarter-inch rotation that left a faint ring on the laminate. The precinct’s flickering fluorescents cast elongated shadows across Tom’s face, deepening the creases around his mouth.

Tom exhaled through his nose, a sound like a valve releasing pressure. “War zones teach you to spot patterns—how a man’s hands twitch before he pulls a knife, the way crowds split before gunfire. Eddie sees murders the same way.” He tapped his temple. “Like chess moves half-played. Murderers have motives, Cleaver—always. Wars are usually for land or money or power, and for some, self-defense. But homicide? It’s personal.”

Ashton nodded. He knew Tom was right. Homicide wasn't just about solving puzzles—it was about understanding the moments when human desperation tipped into irreversible action. The precinct's coffee machine gurgled, releasing a burst of steam that fogged the nearby windowpane, obscuring the squad cars outside. He thought of Eddie's hands, how they'd hovered just above a bloodstain once, tracing the arc of violence without touching it.

“Are there any credentials that I need to get into homicide?”, Ashton asked, swirling the dregs of his coffee—black, bitter, just like the case files he’d glimpsed on Eddie’s desk.

“Credentials?” Tom snorted, rubbing his thumb along the chipped rim of his coffee cup. “Kid, you already cleared the academy. What you need isn’t paperwork—it’s eyes in the back of your head.”

“Oh, I thought I would need to pass some special test or something,” Ashton said, setting his empty cup down with a hollow clink against the laminate.

Tom chuckled. "Special test? Cleaver, you've been doing it every shift—noticing how Eddie's eyes track exits before interviews, or how he clocks hands before weapons." He tapped his temple. "Homicide's not just seeing blood patterns—it's reading the pause before a liar blinks."

Ashton's fingers tightened around his coffee cup, the ceramic warm against his palms. Through the precinct's grimy windows, he caught the flicker of blue emergency lights reflecting off wet pavement—another call-out, another story he wasn't part of yet.

Chapter 14

*

After school, the three Burton children came home, and each started working on their homework each in their rooms- Samuel and Aneurin in their room and Mary in hers. As Mary worked on her  English homework, she thought about how exhausting seventh grade was. She glanced at Rosie, who sat propped up against her pillows, its button eyes catching the late afternoon light filtering through her floral curtains. Mary had the bear since she was 3, and Rosie was her most treasured possession. Rosie was a Christmas gift from Jordan, back when he was babysitting her and her siblings, and he had the bear made special for Mary at a Build-A-Bear workshop, complete with a pink bow and strawberry-scented stuffing. The bear was still in excellent condition, considering its age.

She went over and picked up Rosie, feeling the familiar softness of its plush against her fingertips. “Rosie, do you think Jesus is real?” she whispered, hugging the bear tightly. She hadn’t asked out loud before—not even in Sunday school—but lately, Pastor Jordan’s sermons about the end times gnawed at her like hunger pains. “Mommy and Daddy say He is, so does Jordan the nice man who gave you to me for Christmas, but I don’t know if I feel Him.”

The bear didn’t answer, of course. Mary sighed and flopped onto her bed, Rosie clutched to her chest. Outside her window, snowflakes spiraled down like ash from some distant fire—Jerusalem’s, maybe, though she couldn’t see the connection.

Donna was already preparing dinner. Carl had come home as well, and he’d be attending the Men’s Bible Study later that evening at Pastor Billing’s house. Donna had been making Welsh rarebit—one of Carl’s childhood favorites—and the sharp tang of mustard blended with the nutty aroma of melting cheddar as she layered thick slices of sourdough on the baking tray. As Carl was Welsh, he’d grown up with this dish, and Donna had learned to make it just the way his mother used to.

The three children finished their homework then the family gathered around for dinner. As soon as Carl said grace like he always did, Mary hesitated before eating—she was thinking about asking the question that had been gnawing at her. “Daddy, how do you know Jesus is real?”, she asked, her fingers picking at the crust of her sourdough.

Carl chewed slowly, exchanging a glance with Donna before answering. “Honey, it’s not like knowing the sky’s blue,” he said, taking a sip of lemon sparkling water. “It’s more like knowing how Mommy and Daddy love you—even when we don’t tell you out loud. Jesus shows Himself in ways you learn to see.”

“If Jesus is indeed real, Dad, why doesn’t He show Himself?”, Aneurin asked, stabbing his fork into the Welsh rarebit with sudden force. At fourteen, he had a habit of pushing conversations—especially spiritual ones—into uncomfortable corners. His dark eyebrows knit together as he glared at Carl, waiting. “I mean, really show Himself—not just in some ‘you have to feel it’ way.”

“Son, He did show Himself—two thousand years ago.” Carl set his fork down carefully, the metal clinking against the plate. He leaned forward, his weathered journalist’s hands curling around his glass. “And He’s still showing up—in answered prayers, in changed lives. Just because you haven’t seen lightning doesn’t mean—”

Aneurin shoved his chair back, the legs scraping against the hardwood. “That’s just church talk,” he snapped, his voice cracking mid-sentence. He balled his fists at his sides, knuckles whitening. “If God’s so real, why’s the world still such a mess?”

Mary flinched at the sound of Aneurin’s tone. The air thickened between them—not just the sharpness of cheddar and mustard, but something else, something metallic and bitter. He sat and finished his rarebit in silence, glaring at his plate. Samuel looked back and forth between their father and brother, chewing slower, as if afraid the wrong movement might spark something worse. Donna’s fingers tightened around her fork, the tendons in her wrist standing out like piano wires.

As soon as dinner was finished, Samuel helped clear the dishes—his fingers fumbling against the cold porcelain—while Aneurin and Mary went to change into their pajamas, and Mary went to get Rosie and her pink lamb blanket—her childhood comfort objects—from her room. Samuel later changed into his pajamas as well, and all three went into the family room to watch the smart TV with Mary sitting in between the boys.

Carl got ready for the Men’s Bible Study by changing into his Sunday best—a navy blue blazer over a crisp white shirt, his loafers polished to a shine. He checked his watch three times in five minutes. He went to brush his teeth, splashing cold water on his face as he glanced at the steam-fogged mirror where Donna had scribbled “Isa. 55:8-9” in the condensation—her quiet reminder for him when theological debates ran hot.

Carl grabbed his sedan keys from the hook by the door—the metal cold against his palm—and went into the family room where the three were watching TV.

“You all be good. Mary, be sure to be in bed by the time I get home,” Carl said, leaning down to kiss the top of her head.

“Alright, Daddy”, Mary said, pressing Rosie’s paw into her cheek as Carl lingered by the door, one hand already twisting the knob.

“Bye, Dad”, Samuel and Aneurin called out in unison as Carl stepped into the garage, the automatic door opener groaning like an old man rising from his chair.

Carl had gone to the Men’s Bible Study at Pastor Billings’ house, as he did every Thursday evening after dinner. He greeted Pastor Billings and Jordan both upon arrival, and exchanged small talk with them before settling into the study.

“So why isn’t Bruce, the associate pastor here?”, Carl asked, noticing the empty chair where Billings’ usual right-hand man sat. He tapped his fingers against his knee—a slow, steady rhythm like a metronome counting down to something unseen.

“He texted me and said he wouldn’t be able to make it. You know that he has 3 young kids— they’re a handful,” Pastor Billings replied, rubbing his thumb along the worn edge of his leather-bound Bible.

Carl nodded, and knew Pastor Billings was right. He had seen Bruce’s three kids, the youngest an infant, and knew how demanding parenting could be—he had 6 children himself. Still, Bruce usually made it a priority to attend these meetings, which made Carl wonder if something else was going on.

“Hey, Carl, something on your mind?”, Jordan asked, leaning forward in his chair—the leather sighing under his weight. His fingers drummed absently against the Bible in his lap, the gold-leafed edges catching the lamplight like tiny flames.

“Hey, Jordan. You know that my three youngest children- Samuel, Aneurin, and Mary- go to your youth group, right?”, Carl said, rubbing his thumb along the worn spine of his Bible.

“Yes, of course. Mary usually sits up front— but she’s quieter than the boys,” Jordan said, his fingers stilling on the Bible’s gilded edge. “She’s been asking tough questions lately—about why bad things happen if God’s good. Does she talk to you about that?”

“She asks me a lot lately. For all her 12 years, I’ve been shielding her from the worst headlines. Yes, I am the Editorial Assistant for Global Weekly, but I am a father first. I’d even let her watch something safer in our family room while I watch the news in our living room. But lately, she’s caught glimpses of wars and plagues—and she’s been crying herself to sleep.”

“Hmm, yeah, I notice that with kids her age. She’ll be 13 soon, right?”

“This end of March, yes. Do you think that’s why she’s unsettled? The age?” Carl’s fingers traced the grain of the armrest, worn smooth by years of Thursday nights. Outside, a gust rattled the storm window, carrying the scent of damp pavement and the distant hum of traffic.

“It could be. Mary’s small, isn’t she?”

“Yes, but lately she’s been, I don’t know, quieter? She and Elain used to share a room, but now with Elain away at college, Mary has been feeling isolated and even insecure. She even still sleeps with that pink teddy bear Rosie—the one you gave her for her first Christmas.”

Jordan nodded. Pastor Billings overheard the conversation and interjected, "Carl, I know what is like to have a young daughter going through changes. I have a granddaughter about Mary's age, and I remember those years—the questions, the doubts. It's not just about growing up. The world is a confusing place. But you're doing the right thing by being there for her."

Carl nodded, his fingers tracing the embossed cross on his Bible’s cover—the gold foil flaking at the edges like old paint. He knew that Jordan and Pastor Billings were right, but hearing it aloud made Mary’s struggles feel heavier, more real. He made himself a note to talk to Donna about giving Mary her first iphone; she was turning 13 soon, after all. The family had land line, as Carl had set it up— partly because Carl didn’t want to rely solely on cell reception, and partly because Donna liked the nostalgia of it. All except Mary had their own cell phones now— perhaps it was time she did. She was getting older, after all. Maybe she’d feel less isolated if she could text her siblings or her friends from school.

*

Carl came home after the Men’s Bible Study, and found that Donna was still up. The three kids have already gone to bed while Donna waited for him. “Hey, Donna,” Carl greeted her, stepping into the kitchen—his keys clattering onto the granite countertop, echoing in the quiet house.

“Carl, how was the study?” Donna asked, turning from the sink where she’d been rinsing a ceramic mug—the faint scent of chamomile lingering in the air.

“It was good,” Carl said, rubbing at the stiff spot between his shoulder blades where the study’s wooden chair had dug in. “Jordan mentioned he’s noticed Mary’s been quieter lately—asked if she talks to us about what’s bothering her.” The refrigerator hummed to life behind him, its vibration faint through the soles of his polished dress shoes.

“She’s always been the quiet one, but she does seem quieter now,” Donna said, turning the mug upside down on the drying rack—a single droplet of water clinging to its rim before splattering onto the stainless steel basin.

“Yeah, I noticed that, too. Maybe I should take her skating this weekend,” Carl said, leaning against the counter—the cold granite pressing through his shirt sleeve. He watched Donna wipe her hands on the dish towel, the fabric catching on her wedding ring with a soft rasp.

He went into the boys’ room first, pushing the door open just enough to let the hallway light spill across Aneurin’s restless form—his blankets tangled around his legs like restraints. Samuel slept curled on his side, one arm dangling off the bed, fingers brushing the calculus textbook he’d fallen asleep reading. Carl eased it onto the nightstand, the pages whispering against the wood.

Then he closed the door quietly and moved on to the girls’ room. When he pushed the door open, he saw Mary curled up in the middle of her bed, Rosie tucked under her chin, her fingers gripping the bear’s paw tightly even in sleep. Carl walked over and gently smoothed a stray curl from her forehead—her skin warm against his knuckles, a faint sheen of sweat catching the dim glow of her nightlight. He kissed her temple, inhaling the lingering scent of strawberry shampoo.

He quietly left Mary’s room, the door sighing shut behind him like an exhale. Down the hall, Donna stood at their bedroom window, her silhouette framed against the moonlight seeping through the blinds—sharp lines and soft edges, her fingers worrying the curtain’s hem. Carl paused in the doorway, watching the way her shoulders tensed when the neighbor’s dog barked twice, then fell silent.

“Darling, you alright?” Carl murmured, stepping closer—the floorboard creaking under his weight like an old church pew. Donna’s fingers stilled on the curtain, her wedding band glinting dully in the moonlight.

“Yeah, I am. Our children are sure growing up fast”, she whispered, turning to face him, her wedding band catching a sliver of moonlight as she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Carl reached for her hand, noticing how her fingers trembled slightly against his—not from cold, but from something deeper, something unspoken between them since Aneurin’s outburst at dinner.

“They sure are. Mary’s turning 13 soon—maybe we should get her that phone,” Carl murmured, his thumb tracing the edge of Donna’s palm.

“Do you think she’s ready for one?”

“Maybe she is,” Carl said, studying the faint worry lines around Donna’s eyes—the ones that hadn’t been there when they’d first married. “Since Elain went off to college, Mary’s been clinging to Rosie more than ever. Even with Samuel and Aneurin still at home, she’s drifting.”

“Hmm, that can be tough to be the only girl at home. Our girls are six years apart—Elain’s already in college, and Mary’s still at home. Maybe the phone will help,” Donna said, pressing her thumb into the soft spot between Carl’s knuckles—a nervous habit she’d picked up when the kids were toddlers.

Carl nodded. Elain and Mary were close, despite the age gap—Elain had been the one to teach her little sister how to tie her shoes, how to braid her hair. He pictured Mary sitting alone on the edge of her bed, Rosie clutched to her chest, staring at Elain’s empty side of the room. The four boys shared a room until Robert and Oliver moved out on their own so Samuel and Aneurin had the room to themselves. Samuel and Aneurin probably stare at Robert and Oliver’s empty beds as well. Carl knew the phone wouldn’t fix everything, but maybe it’d be a tether—something to bridge the distance between Mary and Elain.

Carl and Donna got ready for bed in silence, the rustle of sheets and the distant hum of the refrigerator filling the space between them. They prayed together before turning out the light—a nightly ritual since their wedding—but tonight, Carl lingered on Mary’s name longer than usual, his fingers tightening around Donna’s as he whispered, *"And protect her, Lord, wherever she’s drifting."*

Chapter 15

**

The Arlington Heights Hospital had been filled with patients being treated for pneumonia, and Josiah, as an RN, was checking for symptoms in patients. As he had been in the Marine Corps prior to becoming a nurse, he had been trained to keep calm in emergency situations. Although only 22 soon to turn 23, Josiah was mature beyond his age, and was assigned to the infectious disease wing of the hospital.

Then he heard his phone buzzed. It was an incoming call his triplet brother Caleb who was a pilot for Delta Airlines. Josiah answered the phone while checking the IV drip on Mr. Henderson’s pneumonia treatment. The scent of antiseptic mixed with the faint metallic tang of blood as he adjusted the flow rate.

"Caleb?" he said, tucking the phone between his shoulder and ear.

“Josiah, you’ve heard about the air strikes in Israel, haven’t you?”, Caleb’s voice crackled through the phone, urgency pressing against the static.

“Caleb, that was a month ago. How could I forget? Have you talked to Phoebe since then?”, Josiah asked, glancing at the heart monitor’s steady pulse—green lines mapping Mr. Henderson’s resilience. The IV bag dripped methodically, its rhythmic plink underscoring Caleb’s hesitation.

“She’s in Jerusalem right now. Silas has been gathering intel near the Syrian border.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes. I better get going—boarding starts soon.”

“Alright. Please call when you land ,” Josiah said, watching the saline drip hesitate before resuming its steady rhythm—one bead suspended mid-fall like a moment holding its breath. The phone’s screen dimmed as Caleb disconnected, leaving Josiah staring at his own reflection in the darkened glass—his dark circles deeper under the fluorescent lights than they’d been at shift start.

*

Donna thought of the prayer closet that Jackie showed her and the prayer list that Irene showed her. As she sat on the master bed, she watched Carl as he sat at his desk in the den, typing away at his laptop. She admired his dedication—his faith and journalism entwined like twin vines seeking sunlight. The hum of the keyboard stopped as Carl turned, catching her gaze through the half-open door.

She decided to make her own prayer list— *Carl, that I’d be a godly wife to him; Dirk, for his salvation; Robert, that he’d return to faith; Oliver, that he’d stay strong in the Lord; Elain, that she’d remain pure; Samuel, that he’d grow into a man of God; Aneurin, that he’d be healed of his addiction; Mary, that she’d find peace.*

Carl finished up his typing and turned to Donna with a smile. "You know, I was thinking—maybe we could take Mary out for her birthday at the ice rink downtown next month. She’s always loved skating." His fingers brushed across the keyboard one last time before pushing his chair back, the rollers squeaking against the hardwood. Donna glanced up from her prayer list, the pen hovering mid-sentence. The faint scent of lavender from her wrist lotion mingled with the musk of old books stacked on Carl’s desk.

“Why, yes of course. She’s looking forward to watching the Winter Olympics in Milan and Cortina d'Ampezzo on TV. You think she will eventually be in the Olympics?” Donna asked, smoothing the prayer list against her thigh—the paper crinkling like dried leaves.

“It’s hard to say. If that’s what she wants, we should encourage her,” Carl said, watching Donna fold the prayer list into quarters, her fingers pressing the creases with deliberate precision. The paper made a soft, crisp sound—like the turning of a thin Bible page.

**

The students at Prospect High School and Lincoln Middle School brought back in their reports about how Israel was protected from the attack. Quite a few gave the same reports. Some even said it was an act of God. Others said it was something science had yet to explain. The teachers, who were mostly agnostic, allowed the students to voice their opinions but did not give their own take.

"It may have been something scientific", said one student at Prospect High School, "but it sure looked like something from the Bible to me."

"My mom says it was an act of God", said Lionel, giving his report at Lincoln Middle School, his voice clear and steady. The classroom was hushed, and even the teachers couldn't help but lean in to listen to the young boy's words.

"I do not fully understand it", said Santiago after he gave his report, "But it must have been something supernatural."

"I do not know what I make of it", said Mary after she gave her report, "If there was a God out there and He could protect an entire nation, how does He do it?"

“Mary, you know we’re not to discuss religion in our class”, the teacher reminded her gently, though her own gaze was thoughtful.

Mary nodded, but her mind was racing. If what her dad and her friend’s mom believed was true, that this was a sign of the end times, what would happen next? Would more countries get involved? Would it lead to a world war? Or was this just the beginning of something even more extraordinary?

"Israel had always had enemies that have wanted to harm them in any way", said Everett at Prospect High, "And this event was no different. It had be something miraculous that they were spared from casualties.”

The classroom was abuzz with whispers, some nodding in agreement, others looking skeptical. The teacher nodded, acknowledging the various perspectives. "Thank you, Everett. It's important to consider all angles of a story."

"I do think there's a God out there", said Aneurin in his class, “But why would He allow something like this to happen in the country of Israel?"

The room grew quiet, the teacher looking at him with a mix of curiosity and caution. "It's a valid question, Aneurin. Many people are questioning the meaning behind this event."

As this went on, each report had been different in the schools. Some talked about the political implications, others about the scientific theories, but the ones that stood out the most were the ones that talked about the biblical connections. The teachers, while trying to remain neutral, couldn't help but feel the tension in the air, as the students' thoughts and beliefs began to diverge.

*

Robert went to the pan-con office at O'Hare International Airport for a staff meeting with the other crew members. Rayford, Chris, and Robert sat with other pilots and flight attendants for the meeting. Robert tapped his pen against his knee—three quick beats—as the Pan-Con operations manager droned on about fuel efficiency protocols.

“Robert, Tony was just telling me you were over at his house not to long ago”, Rayford murmured, leaning in slightly as the department head flipped slides on fuel economy comparisons.

“Oh, yes. It was… enlightening,” Robert said, forcing a smile as he adjusted his collar—a tell Rayford noticed whenever Robert skirted details.

“Robert, if you free, could you come over to my house?”

Robert looked at his iPhone. “Sure, Ray. What time?”

“How about later this evening?”

“Alright then. So, anything going on with Raymie?”

Rayford proceeded to tell Robert:

By the time Raymie arrived home from school, Rayford had the new four-wheeler and the new snowmobile loaded onto a trailer and was ready to head out to the forest preserve to try them out. It was not lost on Rayford that the boy’s enthusiasm seemed to be directed at the machines, not at his father. And he well knew that this did not really counter Irene’s contention that Raymie wanted Rayford, not toys. Rayford had alienated his son by all the broken promises and lack of attention, so he knew this was Raymie’s way of being polite and avoiding the issue. Unfortunately for Rayford, that would not last. Because the outing soured shortly after they unloaded the equipment. The snow was too deep for the four-wheeler, and Raymie was too young and too small to handle the snowmobile. He had to sit behind Rayford and hang on while Dad had all the fun, racing about.

And it was fun. The thrill of flying had nearly left Rayford after years in the cockpit, carefully maneuvering heavy craft from city to city. He was still at the top of his game, and there was just enough of an edge from the load of responsibility and accountability he felt for the passengers. But the chance to open the snowmobile wide and lean into turns, making Raymie squeal, reminded Rayford of the person he had once been.

“A father and son time, huh?”, Robert said, tapping his fingers against the armrest—quick, restless—as Rayford recounted the snowmobile mishap.

“Yeah, it was a great time. But on the way home, Raymie asked if I believe in Jesus. I said, ‘I guess so.’ You know that he and Irene have been going to the New Hope Village Church, right?”

“Yeah, that’s the same church I went to when I was a little boy. My parents dragged me there every Sunday morning, Sunday night, and Wednesday night,” Robert said. His fingers toyed with the Pan-Con logo on his coffee mug, tracing the dulled edges of the winged crest. His grin tightened—too sharp—like he was daring Rayford to push further. “Sunday school songs, flannel-board Jesus, the whole nine yards. And yet—” He flicked a glance at the conference room’s exit sign, neon-red above the door. “—somehow, here we are.”

“I grew up in going to church myself and used to go all the time with Irene. But there are lots of people who go to church who don’t agree that you have to believe in Jesus to go to heaven. Now I’m glad that Raymie is going to church, and I’m sure it’s going to be good for him in the end. But you know the last thing I want is for something that’s meant for your good to wind up making you intolerant. As you get older, you’ll realize that there are a lot of well-meaning people who think they have God all figured out and really believe that their way is the only way to God. Frankly, that doesn’t make sense to me. I think there are a lot of different paths to God, and one is just as good as another. I don’t think God would punish somebody who never heard of Jesus and was doing the best he could in the religion of his choice. Or no religion. As long as he’s trying to be a good person.”

Robert listened intently to Rayford's explanation—his cynical amusement palpable—before throwing back the last of his coffee. The bitter warmth lingered in his throat, matching the dryness of his response. "So what you're saying is, God grades on a curve?" He leaned forward, tapping his empty mug against the conference table—three sharp, deliberate clicks—like a judge gaveling down a weak defense.

Rayford opened his mouth to reply, but Robert cut him off with a dismissive wave. "Listen, I've flown through thunderstorms that made atheists pray. Doesn't make the sky any less empty afterward." His gaze flicked to the window where a jet roared skyward, its vapor trail slicing the clouds like chalk on slate. Somewhere, he knew, Donna was praying for him—adding his name to her list like another grocery item to collect on Sunday. The thought curled his lips into something that wasn't quite a smile.