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

Chapter 16

*

Josiah tended to a patient in the ER—an elderly man with tremors that made the blood pressure cuff rattle against his bony wrist. The overhead fluorescents flickered once, casting brief shadows across the IV drip bags like passing ghosts. Outside, sirens warbled in the distance, but in here, the only sound was the rhythmic beep of cardiac monitors and the soft rasp of the man’s breathing.

The doctor strode in, snapping latex gloves over his fingers, his forehead creased with the kind of exhaustion that transcended shifts. “Josiah, prep him for an ECG.”

Josiah nodded, rolling the machine closer, its wheels squeaking against the linoleum. The patient’s fingers twitched against the sheets—papery skin stretched over knuckles like old parchment. A scent lingered—camphor and something metallic beneath, the kind of smell that clung to hospital corners long after the cleaners had passed through.

“What do we do, Doctor?”, Josiah asked, his voice low as he smoothed the ECG leads onto the man’s chest. The papery skin trembled beneath his fingers, each rib protruding like the hull of a shipwreck.

The doctor exhaled sharply, adjusting his glasses with a gloved hand. “We stabilize him first.” His gaze flicked to the monitor, where erratic green spikes jagged across the screen like a seismograph during an earthquake. Outside the curtain, footsteps hurried past—orderlies pushing a gurney, the wheels squeaking under the weight of another emergency.

**

Robert had gone over to the Steele’s house later that day. He rang the doorbell and Rayford and Irene both happened to be home. The front door opened, revealing Irene, her sleeves rolled up past her elbows.

"Robert," she said, stepping aside. "Rayford mentioned you were coming. Come in."

“Thank you”, Robert said, stepping inside.

Irene led Robert into the living room, where Rayford instinctively picked up a newspaper as a diversion. Rayford looked up to see Robert examining the framed family photos lining the mantel—Raymie's Little League victories, Chloe's graduation, vacations that felt like relics from another life. The silence stretched just long enough to become uncomfortable.

While Robert was in the living room with Rayford and Irene, Raymie was in the garage talking with his best friend Ryan. Ryan’s parents both worked, so he often came home alone after school. He wasn’t supposed to have anyone in the house when his parents weren’t there, but for many years he and Raymie cheated on that. They would play and eat and watch television, always “keeping an eye out for Mrs. Daley. When she pulled into the driveway, Raymie would hurry to the front door and slip out as she came in the back. Once she was in the house, he knew it was safe to ring the doorbell as if he had just gotten there. That kept Ryan out of trouble. But that had all changed. For a few days, Raymie had excuses for why he couldn’t come over after school. So it was decided that Ryan would come over to Raymie’s house instead, and they were talking in the garage.

“Hey, Robert. Ever read the sports page?”, Rayford said as Irene and Robert each took a seat—Robert on the edge of the couch like he might bolt, Irene settling into the recliner.

“Sure, I have. My dad and I even went to the Bears game at Soldier Field when I was in high school. You and Raymie like to watch sports together?”, Robert asked, his fingers tapping lightly against his knee—three beats, like a nervous metronome.

“Oh, yes. You know how he’s been getting me to go to church on Sundays? On those days, I make it up to him by watching sports.”

“Robert, your mother and I attend the Women’s Bible Study group that Jackie hosts at her house. She told me how you used to attend the New Hope Village Church when you were a little boy, the same church that Raymie and I have been going to”, Irene said, smoothing her skirt over her knees.

“That’s right, I did”, Robert said, stretching his legs out in front of him like he was settling in for turbulence. His posture was casual, but his fingers drummed against the armrest—three quick taps, then silence. “Though ‘attend’ might be overselling it.”

“Really? It’s one of the major thrusts of this church. They believe in Bible prophecy, which says that Jesus is coming back someday, and we don’t know when. That’s why I wish Rayford would come with us this Sunday, because Pastor Billings is finishing up his series on the topic and he’s really going to put it all together. It’s amazing.”

“My father says the same thing- Pastor Billings doing his ‘prophecy series,’ and Samuel says that even youth pastor Jordan has been doing the same series on Wednesday nights.”

Rayford used the occasion to peek at the sports section of the paper. He fully expected her to scold him for not listening, but she was not talking. Rayford found something intriguing in the paper and was soon reading for real.

“I’m reading everything I can get my hands on about the rapture of the church,” Irene said.

“That’s what Raymie was trying to tell me. Jesus is coming back and all that”, Rayford muttered without looking up, the newspaper crinkling as he turned the page.

“My mom’s been doing the same thing”, Robert said, leaning back against the couch cushions with deliberate casualness. “Bibles everywhere. Highlighters, sticky notes—like she’s prepping for the world’s most intense book club.”

In the garage, Raymie and Ryan were done with their conversation and decided to play with Rayford’s model airplane. When Raymie left the garage and trotted up the stairs to his room, he left the door that led into the house open. Suddenly Ryan found himself listening in on a strange conversation, even stranger than what he and Raymie been having.

Irene now was really engaged. “Can you imagine, Rafe? Jesus coming back to get us before we die?”, she asked me, her voice was filled with hope.

“Yeah, boy,” Rayford said, peeking over the top of his newspaper, “that would kill me.”

She was not amused. “If I didn’t know what would happen to me,” she said, “I wouldn’t be so glib about it.”

“I do know what would happen to me. I’d be dead, gone, finis. But you, of course, you would fly right up to heaven.”

He hadn’t meant to offend her. He was just having fun. When she turned away, he rose and pursued her. He spun her around and tried to kiss her, but she was cold. “Come on, Irene,” he said. “Tell me thousands wouldn’t just keel over if they saw Jesus coming back for all the good people.”

She pulled away in tears. “I’ve told you and told you. Saved people aren’t good people, they’re—”

“Just forgiven, yeah, I know,” he said, feeling rejected and vulnerable in his own living room. He returned to his chair and his paper. “If it makes you feel any better, I’m happy for you that you can be so sure.”

“I only believe what the Bible says,” Irene said.

Rayford shrugged. He wanted to say, “Good for you,” but he didn’t want to make a bad situation worse. In a way he envied her confidence, but in truth he wrote it off to her being a more emotional, more feelings-oriented person. He didn’t want to articulate it, but the fact was, he was more intelligent. He believed in rules, systems, laws, patterns, things you could see and feel and hear and touch.

Robert listened to the conversation between Rayford and Irene, and as he did, his fingers slowed against the armrest. The quiet tension between them was insidious—something he recognized from home—and yet Irene's certainty was almost enviable in its clarity.

*****

Samuel, Aneurin, and Mary had come home from school, and Donna was fixing shepherd pie for dinner. The three kids put their backpacks in their bedrooms before gathering around the kitchen island.

“Your father texted me. He’s invited Buck Williams over for dinner”, Donna said without looking up, pressing the back of a spoon into the steaming shepherd’s pie crust.

“You mean the Cameron ‘Buck’ Williams, the youngest senior writer for Global Weekly?”, Samuel asked, leaning against the kitchen counter.

“Yes, that’s him. He actually studied at Princeton with your uncle Dirk.” Donna wiped her hands on her apron, then nodded toward the fridge. “Mary, grab the butter—it’s almost time to set the table.”

Mary pulled open the fridge door, and grabbed the butter dish—its ceramic surface slick with condensation—just as the front door clicked open. Carl’s voice carried down the hall, followed by another man’s laugh—lower, rougher, like gravel under tires. "That’ll be them," Donna murmured, nudging Samuel toward the silverware drawer.

Buck Williams stepped into the kitchen, longish blond hair slightly wind-tousled from the Chicago gusts outside. Carl followed close behind, already loosening his tie with one hand while gesturing toward Buck with the other. "Kids, this is Buck—Buck, meet Samuel, Aneurin, and our youngest, Mary."

“Ah, yes, I’ve heard a lot about them. Carl’s practically built a shrine to you three in the office,” Buck said, his grin crooked as he leaned against the kitchen island.

“You really went to Princeton with Uncle Dirk?”, Aneurin asked, eyeing Buck’s casual posture—one elbow propped on the counter like he owned the place.

“I sure did. I even interviewed him for a school paper feature. Still, I had finagled my own private room as soon as I could manage it, and by the time I was an upperclassman with my sights on an internship—and eventual position—at Global Weekly, I had become one single-minded young man. Literally.”

Buck continued to tell of his time at Princeton. He still enjoyed dating, but he ran from any girlfriend or even acquaintance who hinted at caring for him in a real way. Girl pals accused him of fear of commitment. Maybe they were right, but he didn’t think so. He had a one-track mind; that was all. There weren’t many Princeton students with as modest a background as his, and had it not been for his stellar college test scores, his high school journalism awards, and his extensive extracurricular involvement, he likely never would have gained admittance to an Ivy League school. He had been involved in every club and activity he could find—except the choir, because he couldn’t carry a tune in a barge.

Once at Princeton, Buck had become determined not to just stay, but to make and leave his mark. He had to work, of course, but to kill two pigeons with one pebble, he took a job as a stringer for a local paper. He shone there so early that they kept offering him a full-time job. Cameron didn’t want to offend his boss, so he brushed aside the offer with the excuse that he had to finish college first. The truth was, his sights were set much higher than a local paper.

He told Dirk, “If I graduate from Princeton and have no other offers, I will feel like a colossal failure.”

“No worries,” Dirk said. “Somehow I think you’ll succeed all right.”

That said, Buck threw himself into every assignment for the little rag. He started covering high school sports and school board meetings, of all things. The full-timers resented the attention he got from editors when his little stories seemed to gleam with import. He eschewed the standard who, what, when, where, why, and how inverted-pyramid formula and got to the point in the first paragraph.

“So you never settled down?”, Samuel asked as he poured sparkling water into Buck’s glass, the bubbles fizzing against the ice cubes.

“Well, I had never really been serious enough with anyone to be engaged to”, Buck admitted, swirling the ice cubes in his glass.

“Uncle Dirk never settled down either. He had a few girlfriends, but they never lasted,” Aneurin said, taking a sip of his water before narrowing his eyes at Buck. “Are you two alike?”

“We’re same age, and we graduated together. But Dirk’s always been more... unconventional,” Buck said, rubbing his thumb along the rim of his glass. “So Carl, are these all your kids?”

“Actually, Buck, that’s three of them. Our oldest Robert is a second officer pilot for Pan-Con 747, and Oliver and Elain are both in college, Oliver at Chicago State University and Elain at University of South Chicago.”

“So they’re still in Chicago, right?”

“True, but Chicago is such a big city. The distance between Chicago and here in Mount Prospect is about twenty-five miles. Pan-Con 747 is one of the big international planes, so Robert’s primarily stationed at O’Hare. Chicago State University is on the south side—an hour-plus commute on public transit, so Oliver lives on campus. The University of South Chicago is technically in Chicago, but it’s a stone’s throw from Indiana, so Elain stays in student housing too. Though they both stay with us on the weekend and attend church with us on Sundays,” Carl explained, scraping butter across a dinner roll. “Funny how even a short distance can make things feel worlds apart.”

“Oh, isn’t that the truth?”, Buck mused, swirling his water glass before tapping it lightly against the table. “Twenty-five miles might as well be a different planet. I’m stationed in the New York City office, but I come here when needed.”

Donna brought out the shepherd pie—the golden-brown crust steaming—and set it in the center of the table. Buck inhaled deeply, his grin widening. "Now that's what I call Midwestern hospitality. My New York studio apartment hasn't seen home cooking like this in years. You'd think journalism paid better."

“How about we give thanks before we dig in?” Carl said, clasping his hands together. Buck hesitated, then bowed his head with the others—his fingers flexing against the tablecloth like he wasn’t sure what to do with them. “Father, we thank You for this food, for Buck’s safe travels, and for the gift of fellowship tonight. We pray Your blessing over our conversation. Amen.”

Mary snuck a glance at Buck during the prayer—caught the way his jaw tightened briefly at the word *fellowship*, like it tasted unfamiliar on his tongue. As soon as Carl said "Amen," Buck reached for his fork with a little too much enthusiasm, his knuckles whitening around the handle.

As they ate, Buck leaned back slightly in his chair—just enough to avoid looking stiff, not enough to seem disengaged. His fork scraped against the plate with deliberate care, the sound muted by the hum of conversation. "Donna, this shepherd’s pie is incredible," he said, and the compliment wasn't hollow—his shoulders relaxed in a way that suggested he rarely had meals like this. Mary caught the flicker of something wistful in his expression before it smoothed over into practiced charm.

“So how long are you here for?”, Samuel asked, nudging his fork through the last remnants of shepherd’s pie—the gravy-darkened mashed potatoes parting like soft earth.

“I’m heading back to New York City tomorrow. Steve Plank wants me to cover a story on the newly elected Mayor, but honestly—” Buck’s fingers tapped twice against his water glass, leaving smudges on the condensation. His gaze flicked toward the living room window, where snowflakes dissolved against the glass like vanishing thoughts. “I’d rather be digging deeper into Rosenzweig’s formula. There’s something about it that doesn’t add up.”

“The newly elected mayor? Wouldn’t that be Zohran Mamdani?” Samuel asked, glancing up from his plate. Buck’s fork stilled mid-bite, and Carl shot his son a quizzical look—since when did a high schooler track New York City politics?

“Yes, that’s him. He met with Mwangati Ngumo, the Secretary-General of the United Nations. You’ve heard of him, Carl?”

“Yes, I have interviewed him before. He’s from Botswana, I believe”, Carl said, fingers drumming against the tablecloth—slow, deliberate taps like he was counting seconds.

"What's a secretary-general?", Mary asked, nudging her fork through the last bite of pie. She had learned about government at school, but never heard that title before.

“Well, Secretary-General Ngumo’s basically the UN’s top diplomat—like a referee for world leaders,” Buck said. “But Mamdani’s different. First Socialist mayor in decades, and he’s got this—” His fingers twitched midair as if grasping for the right word before settling on, “—*ferocity* about climate policy that’s rattling Wall Street.”

“I can’t imagine Wall Street reacting well to that,” Carl said, watching Buck’s fingers dance restlessly around his water glass—the condensation pooling beneath it like sweat.

As soon as dinner was over,  Carl and Buck went into his den, where they’ve discussed events, theological viewpoints, and career moves. Buck still wasn’t a believer—his skepticism rooted in years of chasing hard truths—but there was a quiet intensity in the way he leaned forward when Carl mentioned Ezekiel’s prophecy about dry bones.

“Well, I better be going. Thank you for inviting me over for dinner, Carl, Donna,” Buck said, standing up from the dinner table and grabbing his jacket from the coat rack by the front door. “It was a pleasure meeting you all.”

“Come by any time, Buck,” Carl replied, shaking Buck’s hand firmly. “And if you ever want to talk more about Israel…”

Buck’s grin flickered—something guarded passing behind his eyes—before he nodded. “I’ll keep that in mind.” The door clicked shut behind him, leaving the faint scent of cold air and aftershave in the foyer.

Chapter 17

****

The campus at the University of South Chicago smelled of damp asphalt and fresh mulch, the kind of scent that clung to your shoes long after you'd left it behind. Lucille made herself a cup of coffee with Nutpod caramel creamer, the liquid swirling like a sandstorm in her mug. Although she wasn’t a vegan or diabetic, she preferred sugar-free creamers—partly for the taste, partly for the illusion of control.

Madeline fixed breakfast—scrambled eggs with spinach, caramelized onions, and feta cheese. She slid them onto plates with surgical precision, the golden yolks glistening under the overhead light. They sat down for breakfast, then got ready for class.

On the way, Lucille and Madeline saw Elain and Addi walking ahead, deep in conversation. Elain’s hands moved as she spoke—graceful, animated—while Addi nodded, her backpack straps digging into her shoulders under the weight of theology textbooks. Lucille slowed her steps, letting the distance between them grow. She could’ve caught up—could’ve asked about last night’s Bible study—but something in Elain’s posture, the way her laughter carried too brightly, made her hesitate.

Lucille heard her phone buzz. A text from her mother: *I am thinking of you and praying.* She shoved the phone back into her pocket, the familiar ache blooming under her ribs. Ahead, Addi paused mid-sentence and turned, as if sensing Lucille’s hesitation. Their eyes met—Elain’s enthusiasm faltering—before Addi lifted her chin slightly in acknowledgment. The silent invitation hung there, unanswered.

*****

Sunday morning came, and of course it was the day for church. Children’s Sunday School met during the first service, and Donna and Irene both volunteer to assist Jackie in teaching her primary girls class

The little girls were so precious, and Jackie was a natural with them. They seemed bright and happy and curious, and because they were so young, they drank in the Bible stories and lessons. Donna remembered how Elain and Mary were when they were each that age— their eyes wide, absorbing everything. Irene was struck that the class seemed bigger this week and mentioned that to Jackie.

“Yes,” Jackie said. “At least three new girls. And Dooley said the men’s pancake breakfast yesterday was packed.”

“Yes, Carl told me about that”, Donna said. “He said that it was a big turnout, and that some of the men were discussing Russia’s failed attack. He said that Pastor Billings gave a short devotional—something about Ezekiel—and that several men stayed behind to ask questions.”

“There was a story in the Herald about church attendance being on the rise. Did either of you see it?”

Irene shook her head. Interesting though. More and more people interested in church and Rayford less so. What could she do but pray for him? It wasn’t like her to take such a passive approach, but enough people had warned her against pushing him that she had to take their word for it that it would do more harm than good.

Donna remembered the news about Charlie Kirk, who spoke at conservative events and on college campuses, and was assassinated September 10, 2025, while on stage at Utah Valley University in Orem, Utah, for a TPUSA event, "The American Comeback Tour". Donna couldn’t help but wonder if his death had anything to do with the rise in church attendance— as he was an outspoken Christian conservative who reached out to young people.

As soon Sunday School was done, the Burton family sat in the 4th pew aisle end. After all the usual preliminaries—call to worship, prayer, singing, special music, offering, and announcements—it was finally time for Pastor Billings’s sermon.

“Those of you who have been in your seats for a few moments may want to glance around before I begin,” he said. “This may be the largest crowd ever accommodated by this building.”

After Pastor Billings opened with his usual prayer, he ran through a fast recap of what he had already covered in the series, emphasizing that “no man knows the day or the hour of the return of the Lord, not even Jesus Himself. He told His disciples that only the Father knew when the end would come, so anyone who says he knows when this will occur is engaging in the highest and most shameless form of folly. 

One thing we know, and that is that there is nothing left on the prophetic calendar that must occur before Jesus comes from heaven with a shout and the trumpet blast and gathers true believers from all over the globe. Scripture teaches us to live in light of His imminent return and to conduct ourselves as if it could be today. And yet God in His mercy might wait one more day, which in His economy of time—the Bible says—is a thousand years. My faith would not be shaken if He tarried past my death. But it behooves us to know what it means to live as if He could return today.

He will not return to the earth this time, but rather He will appear in the clouds. And the dead in Christ shall rise first, and then we who remain shall be snatched away in the twinkling of an eye, and so shall we ever be with the Lord.

Oh, make no mistake—He will return and set foot on this earth again someday, but that is not the Rapture. That will be the Glorious Appearing, seven years after Antichrist signs a fake covenant with God’s chosen people. Some teach that this seven years begins with the Rapture, but I believe it begins with the signing of that covenant, which could take place anywhere from a few days after the Rapture to a couple of years later.

Regardless, true believers who are raptured will enjoy seven years in the house of God with Christ, who has spent two thousand years preparing that place for us. We have covered many times who will go, but it is always good to rehearse it. Good people? No. The Bible says, ‘There is none righteous, no, not one.’ Religious people? No. God is no respecter of persons. The kind, the generous, the serving? Well, hopefully, those who qualify will exhibit these qualities. But Scripture is also clear that it is not by works of righteousness we have done but by God’s mercy that He saves us. It is ‘the gift of God, not of works, lest anyone should boast.

Acts of service, works of righteousness—surely these are good and positive and necessary things for the believer. But they will not save him. They will not get her into heaven. They will not prepare one should the Rapture occur today. Those are things that should be done in response to the free gift of salvation that has been offered . . . and to whom? To those who believe. To those who trust in the sacrificial work of Christ on the cross for the forgiveness of their sins.

You have heard me say before that some of the people who go may not be as nice as some of the people who are left. Just because all men and women are sinners—either saved by grace or still lost in their sins—does not mean there are not nice and pleasant people around.

I’m often asked, ‘Isn’t this discriminatory? Aren’t you being exclusivistic? Who are you to say that sincere, devout people of other religions will be lost, left behind?’ I realize that we live in a pluralistic society and that people of all faiths and persuasions deserve respect and have the right to make their own decisions. I want to be as tolerant as anyone, and you will never hear that Vernon Billings or New Hope Village Church or—I pray—any true follower of Christ would condemn another person simply because they choose to disagree with us. We are to love even our enemies, let alone colleagues and friends and acquaintances and relatives who simply disagree with us.

But it is also our responsibility as ambassadors of Christ to tell the truth as we know and believe it, that Jesus Himself claims to be ‘the way, the truth, and the life’ and that it was He Himself who said He was the only way to God. We may not like that. That may not have been the plan had we been God. We don’t have to understand it. God’s ways are not our ways. So we don’t share this news to offend or divide. We share it simply to inform and to urge people to make up their own minds about what they will do with this alarming statement.

Our job, our obligation, is to spread the word, to plead with people to investigate the claims of Christ so they might be ready when that great day comes. What they do with the message is up to them. And how we respond to their decision reflects on our Lord Himself. You will not hear of true Christians hating, condescending, terrorizing, bombing, killing, or flying planes into the buildings of those who exercise their freedom to disagree. Christ tells us to love and pray for them.

But now, and I know you were wondering if I would ever get to it, I would like to conclude my series with what we might expect on that great day.”

Pastor Billings announced three separate Bible texts, and while these were projected on a screen behind him, the pages were turning throughout the church—soft rustles blending with the scrape of pews. The first The first was from John 14:1-6, where Jesus was talking to His Disciples-

*'Let not your hearts be troubled. Believe in God; believe also in me. In my Father's house are many rooms. If it were not so, would I have told you that I go to prepare a place for you? And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and will take you to myself, that where I am you may be also. And you know the way to where I am going.' Thomas said to him, 'Lord, we do not know where you are going. How can we know the way?' Jesus said to him, 'I am the way, and the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.'*

The next verse was 1 Thessalonians 4:13-18-

*But we do not want you to be uninformed, brothers, about those who are asleep, that you may not grieve as others do who have no hope. For since we believe that Jesus died and rose again, even so, through Jesus, God will bring with him those who have fallen asleep. For this we declare to you by a word from the Lord, that we who are alive, who are left until the coming of the Lord, will not precede those who have fallen asleep. 16 For the Lord himself will descend from heaven with a cry of command, with the voice of an archangel, and with the sound of the trumpet of God. And the dead in Christ will rise first. Then we who are alive, who are left, will be caught up together with them in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air, and so we will always be with the Lord. Therefore encourage one another with these words.*

“I don’t want to assume that everyone here knows what Paul meant when he wrote of those who have ‘fallen asleep,’” Pastor Billings said. “Those are the dead. So we are not to mourn those who die in Christ, for we believe that they too will be snatched away to be with Him on that great day—even before we are, should we be alive at the time.”

Then he went on to 1 Corinthians 15:50-58-

*I tell you this, brothers: flesh and blood cannot inherit the kingdom of God, nor does the perishable inherit the imperishable. 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. For the trumpet will sound, and the dead will be raised imperishable, and we shall be changed. 53 For this perishable body must put on the imperishable, and this mortal body must put on immortality. When the perishable puts on the imperishable, and the mortal puts on immortality, then shall come to pass the saying that is written:

“Death is swallowed up in victory.

“O death, where is your victory?

O death, where is your sting?”

The sting of death is sin, and the power of sin is the law. But thanks be to God, who gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.

Therefore, my beloved brothers, be steadfast, immovable, always abounding in the work of the Lord, knowing that in the Lord your labor is not in vain.*

“Paul is saying here that while our works will not save us, the hope of the resurrection makes them all worth it", Pastor Billings continued, "Nothing done in Jesus’ name is wasted. So do you see the progression here, people? The dead in Christ shall rise first. Can you imagine? Bodies in graves and crematoria, lost at sea, buried by natural disasters, entombed in sunken ships, obliterated by bombs, consumed in fires, aborted . . . all rising before those who remain alive in Christ.

And then I foresee a great reunion of believers—perhaps a billion or two from all around the globe—in the clouds. Then we shall rise to meet Jesus. And then He will take us to His Father’s house. I don’t know about you, but I can’t wait. I wish I could describe this to you, but Paul, writing to the Corinthians, echoed the writing of Isaiah when he said, ‘Eye has not seen, nor ear heard, nor have entered into the heart of man the things which God has prepared for those who love Him.’

The only passage in the Bible that describes God’s house is Revelation 21, where it is seen descending out of the heavens to the earth at the end of the Millennium—Jesus’ thousand-year reign of peace on earth following His glorious appearing at the end of the Tribulation."

He spoke of Revelation 21:

*Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth, for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away, and the sea was no more. And I saw the holy city, new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband. And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, ‘Behold, the dwelling place of God is with man. He will dwell with them, and they will be his people, and God himself will be with them as their God. He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away.’*

He also told of the judgment seat of Christ, where the deeds of believers would be tested and rewarded—or not. “Just as our works cannot save us, neither can they cause us to lose our salvation. But it is clear from Scripture that they will determine the level and extent of our heavenly reward. So for those who say they have believed in Jesus just for fire insurance, just to stay out of hell, they would be wise to consider that everything they have ever done will be revealed in that judgment.”

Pastor Billings concluded with a resounding treatise on the symbolic marriage ceremony in heaven of Jesus the Lamb to His bride, the church. “The wedding supper, the celebration, will be reserved for the Millennium seven years later,” the pastor said. “But imagine the ceremony itself. Then as the Tribulation draws to a close on earth, the raptured will be marshaled to accompany Jesus on His glorious appearing for the Battle of Armageddon and the setting up of His thousand-year reign. The terrible Great White Throne Judgment, in which the sheep and goats will be determined and judged, will also take place during the Millennium.

And you know, my presumption is that we will not experience time there as we do here. If a thousand years is as a day to the Lord and a day a thousand years, imagine how brief seven earthly years must seem from the other side of the portals in glory. It might seem to us but a moment, and then we shall be united with those who were left behind and came to Christ. Oh, what a day. What a day.”

Pastor Billings merely stepped away from the pulpit, descended the three steps from the platform, and stood at floor level before the first pew. He stretched his arms wide and said quietly, “If you would be ready, come.”

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

*****

Soon after church, Carl and Donna began to talk of about what a great it will be when Jesus comes to take them to Heaven. They talked about the beauty of the place, the peace and joy that would fill the air, and the absence of any kind of pain. Their conversation was filled with hope and excitement, and their faces glowed with anticipation.

"Imagine going to Heaven without having to die", said Donna, her eyes sparkling. "It's like getting the best part of life without the worst of it."

"It's hard to comprehend, isn't it?" Carl nodded. "But it's a promise we can hold onto, especially with all that's going on in the world."

"Didn't Pastor Billings said that it's going to happen all of a sudden?", Mary asked Jordan as she caught up with him in the church parking lot after the service.

"In the blink of an eye. Yes, Mary, it will”, Jordan replied, tucking his Bible under his arm as the wind caught his tie—a habit he never seemed to break, that reflexive smoothing motion whenever scripture came up.

"But about those left here?”

“Yes, it’s a tough part to think about, but we have to remember that Jesus is a loving and just God. I believe that those who miss the Rapture will have another chance to accept Him during the Tribulation, though it will be a much more difficult time to be a Christian. You’ll see people come to Christ in those days—but the price will be high.”

“How so?”

“Well, Revelation talks about martyrs. Those who refuse the mark will be hunted—no buying, no selling, just survival on the fringes. Imagine losing access to everything overnight.”

Carl approached Jordan and Mary. “Hey, honey. Are you ready to go?”, Carl asked Mary, tapping his car keys against his thigh.

“Yeah, Daddy”, Mary said, though her fingers lingered on the car door handle—slight hesitation, knuckles whitening before she finally pulled it open.

“So what did you all learn in Sunday School?”, Donna asked the three children as Carl drove the family home. The question—routine, harmless—landed like a stone in water.

“Pastor Jordan talked about the story of the Rich Fool,” Samuel said. “The one who built bigger barns and thought he had life figured out.”

“Ah, and did he talked about what happened that night?”, Carl asked without taking his eyes off the road—his tone casual, but his grip tightened slightly on the wheel.

“Yeah, he said that God said, ‘You fool!’ and the rich man died that night. But why?”, Mary asked.

“Because he stored up treasures for himself but wasn’t rich toward God,” Samuel said, pressing his forehead against the cool window glass as suburban lawns blurred past.

“And oh boy, aren’t people like that today?”, Carl asked. “Building empires off crypto or influencer clout—like that’ll matter when eternity comes knocking.”

By the time they’ve reached home, Carl turned on the 2026 Winter Olympics on the smart TV, and Mary sat to watch with him. The games in the Winter Olympics included figure skating, curling, ski jumping, ice hockey, and snowboarding. Mary’s favorite, of course, was figure skating.

“Daddy, do you think I’ll ever skate at the Olympics?” Mary asked, her voice barely audible over the commentator’s drone about a Russian skater’s quadruple toe loop. The TV’s blue light flickered across her face, catching the tension in her jaw as she watched the athlete land—perfectly, effortlessly—before a roaring crowd.

“Honey, if that’s what you want to do, we’ll get you every bit of coaching Jackie recommends,” Carl said, rubbing his thumb over Mary’s knuckles.

Mary nodded. She had done gymnastics before—her coach praised her flexibility, but skating demanded more than splits and flips. Her small frame was flexible for both sports, though. She knew she wouldn’t be a model, as models were usually tall, and she was small. But skating? She could be small. She looked back at the TV, where the Russian skater was bowing, her sequined leotard catching the arena lights like shattered glass.

Chapter 18

*

A few months have passed, and it was summer break from school. It was usually a time to be at the pool or going to Chicago Cubs or White Sox game. Mary, who turned 13 back in March, received her first iPhone, pink of course. She also received a pink journal with her name on it from Jordan. Inside, there were end time prophecies scriptures, as well as the Romans Road scriptures: Romans 3:23, Romans 6:23, Romans 5:8, Romans 10:9-10, Romans 10:13; below them, Jordan had added 1 Peter 3:1-7, which spoke about beauty coming from within: “let it be the hidden person of the heart with the imperishable quality of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is precious in the sight of God.”  Mary ran her fingers over the embossed letters—the gold foil catching the afternoon light—and wondered if Jordan had chosen these verses just for her. He had previously gifted Samuel with a green journal with his name on it for his 17th birthday, and Aneurin with a blue journal with his name on it for his 15th birthday.  Each were also filled with the end time prophecies scriptures, as well as the Romans Road scriptures in Aneurin‘s. As Jordan knew that Samuel was already saved, instead of the Romans Road, Jordan had written verses about living out faith and sharing the gospel- the Beatitudes, Ephesians 6, Philippians 4:13,  Romans 12, Matthew 28:19-20, Mark 16:15-16, Luke 8:26-39,  John 14:15-24, and Acts 1:8. In Aneurin’s, Jordan had added Isaiah 55:6-7 below: “Seek the Lord while He may be found; call upon Him while He is near. Let the wicked forsake his way and the unrighteous man his thoughts. And let him return to the Lord, and He will have compassion on him, and to our God, for He will abundantly pardon.” Also, in each of the three journals were the LORD’s Prayer in Matthew 6:9-13, as Jordan have often said in youth group that the LORD’s prayer was the perfect model for prayer. It was the prayer that Jesus taught His disciples, and it was the perfect model for prayer because it covered all the bases: adoration, confession, thanksgiving, and supplication.

For some, it was attending Vacation Bible Schools in churches. Carl and Donna had taken their kids to Vacation Bible Schools when they were younger. Now that they were older, with the youngest Mary having turned 13 that year, there wasn't a place for them there. But Jordan had organized a youth camp for those aged 12-17 that summer, and Mary, Samuel, and Aneurin would be attending.

“Do I have to go?”, Aneurin asked, kicking his duffel bag toward the car—the canvas scraping against the driveway gravel with a sound like sandpaper on wood. Carl exhaled through his nose, watching Samuel load his own bag into the trunk with military precision, his movements sharp and efficient. Mary was already buckled in the backseat, flipping through her journal—the one Jordan had given her—her thumb tracing the embossed cross on the cover like a worry stone.

“Come on, you’ll have fun”, Carl said, watching Aneurin’s jaw tighten.

Mary held on to Rosie in the backseat. Though the boys didn’t understand why she would be taking her pink bear with her to youth camp, she wasn’t about to leave Rosie behind—not when she had been her companion through everything. Carl drove to New Hope Village Church in silence, listening to Samuel and Aneurin argue softly about bunk assignments—Samuel wanted a quiet corner by the window, Aneurin wanted to be near the exit "just in case." Carl glanced in the rearview mirror at Mary, who was staring out the window, fingers twisting Rosie’s fur into tiny spirals.

By the time they’ve arrived at New Hope Village Church, Jordan was already waiting outside, For some, it was attending Vacation Bible Schools in churches. Carl and Donna had taken their kids to Vacation Bible Schools when they were younger. Now that they were older, with the youngest Mary having turned 13 that year, there wasn't a place for them there. But Jordan had organized a youth camp for those aged 12-17 that summer, and Mary, Samuel, and Aneurin would be attending.

“Do I have to go?”, Aneurin asked, kicking his duffel bag toward the car—the canvas scraping against the driveway gravel with a sound like sandpaper on wood. Carl exhaled through his nose, watching Samuel load his own bag into the trunk with military precision, his movements sharp and efficient. Mary was already buckled in the backseat, flipping through her journal—the one Jordan had given her—her thumb tracing the embossed cross on the cover like a worry stone.

“Come on, you’ll have fun”, Carl said, watching Aneurin’s jaw tighten.

Mary held on to Rosie in the backseat. Though the boys didn’t understand why she would be taking her pink bear with her to youth camp, she wasn’t about to leave Rosie behind—not when she had been her companion through everything. Carl drove to New Hope Village Church in silence, listening to Samuel and Aneurin argue softly about bunk assignments—Samuel wanted a quiet corner by the window, Aneurin wanted to be near the exit "just in case." Carl glanced in the rearview mirror at Mary, who was staring out the window, fingers twisting Rosie’s fur into tiny spirals.

By the time they’ve arrived at New Hope Village Church, Jordan was already waiting outside, his clipboard pressed against his chest as he greeted each carload of kids with a nod and a grin. Mary clutched Rosie tighter when she spotted him—not out of fear, but something closer to anticipation, like the flutter before a jump on the ice. Samuel unbuckled first, his duffel slung over one shoulder with the ease of someone who’d done this before. Aneurin lingered, fingers drumming against the door handle until Carl cleared his throat. "Go on," he said, softer than usual. "Try to enjoy it."

*

Carl had returned home, and went on his computer. He came across a transcript of a phone conversation between Dirk and Buck a few years ago that Dirk had emailed to him which he had saved. Dirk had been a reliable source in the past, tipping off both Carl and Buck about secret high-level meetings among international financiers. For years Carl Buck had been slightly amused at Dirk’s tendency to buy into conspiracy theories.

Buck: Let me get this straight, you think these guys are the real world leaders, right?

Dirk: I wouldn’t go that far, Buck. All I know is, they’re big, they’re private, and after they meet, major things happen.

Buck: So you think they get world leaders elected, handpick dictators, that kind of a thing?

Dirk: I don’t belong to the conspiracy book club, if that’s what you mean.

Buck: Then where do you get this stuff, Dirk? Come on, you’re a relatively sophisticated guy. Power brokers behind the scenes? Movers and shakers who control the money?

Dirk: All I know is, the London exchange, the Tokyo exchange, the New York exchange—we all basically drift until these guys meet. Then things happen.

Buck: You mean like when the New York Stock Exchange has a blip because of some presidential decision or some vote of Congress, it’s really because of your secret group?

Dirk: No, but that’s a perfect example. If there’s a blip in your market because of your president’s health, imagine what it does to world markets when the real money people get together.

Buck: But how does the market know they’re meeting? I thought you were the only one who knew.

Dirk: Buck, be serious. OK, not a lot of people agree with me, but then I don’t say this to just anyone. One of our muckety-mucks is part of this group. When they have a meeting, no, nothing happens right away. But a few days later, a week, changes occur.

Buck: Like what?

Dirk: You’re going to call me crazy, but a friend of mine is related to a girl who works for the secretary of our guy in this group, and—

Buck: Whoa! Hold it! What’s the trail here?

Dirk: OK, maybe the connection is a little remote, but you know the old guy’s secretary is not going to say anything. Anyway, the scuttlebutt is that this guy is real hot on getting the whole world onto one currency. You know half our time is spent on exchange rates and all that. Takes computers forever to constantly readjust every day, based on the whims of the markets.

Buck: One global currency? Never happen.

Dirk: How can you flatly say that?

Buck: Too bizarre. Too impractical. Look what happened in the States when they tried to bring in the metric system.

Dirk: Should have happened. You Yanks are such rubes.

Buck: Metrics were only necessary for international trade. Not for how far it is to the outfield wall at Yankee Stadium or how many kilometers it is from Indianapolis to Atlanta.

Dirk: I know, Buck. Your people thought you’d be paving the way for the Communists to take over if you made maps and distance markers easy for them to read.

Carl’s mind raced as he read through the transcript again—Dirk’s words about a global currency and shadowy power brokers gnawing at him like a persistent itch. This was a few years ago, but with Dirk’s recent cryptic texts about "big moves" in London, it suddenly felt urgent. He tapped his fingers against the desk, staring at the screen, then abruptly closed the laptop. Outside, the summer dusk painted the sky in purples and oranges, the same colors that had streaked the horizon the night Dirk first told him about Buck Williams.

*****

Youth camp was filled with mosquito-loud nights and sticky mornings, the air thick with sunscreen and whispered confessions. Mary clung to Rosie during Bible study, pressing the bear’s frayed ear against her collarbone as Jordan paced before the whiteboard—his marker squeaking as he sketched timelines of prophecy, the ink bleeding into the paper like storm clouds. Samuel sat rigid in the front row, answering every question with military precision, while Aneurin slouched near the exit, twisting his water bottle cap until the plastic groaned.

“Now I can’t say for sure whether it will take place before the tribulation or in the middle or after”, Jordan said, “But you must understand that the tribulation will be the worst thing that humans are going to experience.”

“If this takes place before the tribulation“, asked Santiago, “What about those left here?”

”Very good question, Santiago. I do think that those left here after the Rapture will have the opportunity to be saved. There will also be the rise of 144,000 witnesses that will rise up from every tribe. God will also raise up two witnesses and they will have prophecy for 1,260 days, which calculates to 3 1/2 years.“

”Does anyone know who these two witnesses might be?”, asked Mary, her fingers tightening around Rosie’s paw.

“There’s been a lot of debate about that, Mary. There are some who say it’s going to be Moses and Elijah, there are some who say that it’s going to be Enoch and Elijah. Why? The two witnesses are given power to turn water to blood and hold back rain, similar to Moses and Elijah. Also, Moses and Elijah talked with Jesus at the transfiguration. In the case of Enoch and Elijah, it may have something to do with their unique exist out of this world. They are the only ones that we know of who went to Heaven without dying. Whoever these witnesses are, God will reveal them in His time.”

Jordan tapped the whiteboard, his marker squeaking again as he underlined the phrase *two witnesses*—the ink pooling darkly under the pressure of his hand. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting sharp shadows across the faces of the kids who leaned forward, elbows propped on folding chairs. Santiago’s brow furrowed, his fingers drumming against his knee in a rhythm that matched the cicadas droning outside the open window.

“Do you think the witnesses are here now?”, Everett asked suddenly, his knee bouncing under the folding chair—the metal legs rattling against the linoleum.

Jordan chuckled. "Could be," he said, rubbing his thumb over the dry-erase marker's smudged tip. "But if they are, they wouldn't announce it—not yet." The cicadas outside hit a sudden crescendo, drowning out Mary's quiet intake of breath as she squeezed Rosie tighter.

Jordan continued to speak of end times and how things would occur. His words painted a vivid picture of chaos and hardship, but also of hope and redemption. Mary listened intently, her fingers absentmindedly stroking Rosie's fur, her mind racing with questions she wasn't sure how to voice. The weight of the future pressed down on her, mingling with the humid summer air.

*****

Carl read through the transcript again, his fingers drumming on the desk with a nervous rhythm. The mention of a global currency wasn't just Dirk's usual conspiracy rambling—not when financial whispers from London, Tokyo, and New York had aligned eerily over the past month. He was actually quite glad he saved it all those years ago.

Recently, Carl had heard the possibility of the US acquiring of Greenland from Denmark in exchange for debt relief—something that was once dismissed as ludicrous now had economists whispering about territorial shifts and resource control. If that wasn’t proof of the world reshaping overnight, he didn’t know what was.

He pulled out his phone and sent Dirk a single text: *The United States may acquire Greenland—what‘s the connection?*

A reply came within minutes—Dirk’s message terse and loaded: *Same players, different game. Think bigger than land. Think currency.* Carl’s throat went dry.  If the US acquired Greenland, it wouldn’t just be about Arctic dominance or rare earth minerals—it would destabilize global trade norms, forcing a recalibration of monetary systems. A perfect storm for Dirk’s so-called "real money people" to push their agenda.

Chapter 19

******

Mary stepped into Jordan’s cabin—the wood creaking under her sneakers—and found him hunched over his laptop, his brow furrowed in the blue glow of the screen.

“Jordan, can I ask you something?”, Mary asked, her voice barely above a whisper as Rosie dangled from her grip.

“Sure, Mary. What’s on your mind?”, Jordan asked, closing his laptop with a soft click and turning toward her. The scent of pine from the cabin walls mingled with the faint metallic tang of the laptop’s cooling fan.

“I was wondering, all that stuff you’ve been saying, does it ever scare you?” Mary asked, pressing Rosie’s worn paw against her stomach. The cabin’s single bulb flickered, casting shadows that made Jordan’s face look older, the lines around his mouth deepening as he exhaled slowly. Outside, crickets had replaced the cicadas, their rhythmic chirping filling the silence before he answered.

“Sometimes,” Jordan admitted, his fingers tracing the edge of his laptop. “But fear isn’t the point—it’s about being ready.”

“That’s what my daddy always says. Being ready.” Mary shifted her weight, the floorboard groaning beneath her. “But how do you know if you *are* ready?”

“Honestly? I don’t think anyone feels a hundred percent ready.”

Mary swallowed hard, gripping Rosie tighter as if the bear could absorb her racing thoughts. She’d practiced this moment in her head a dozen times—asking something profound, something that would make him see her as more than just Carl Burton’s quiet daughter. But now, under the weight of his attention, her carefully rehearsed words dissolved into static. Outside, a chorus of crickets filled the silence, their rhythmic chirping syncopated with the erratic thud of her heart.

“How about you get some sleep? Big day tomorrow”, Jordan said, tapping his laptop as Mary hovered by the doorframe—her shadow stretching long and thin across the cabin floor. She nodded stiffly, Rosie’s button eyes catching the flickering bulb light like twin moons in the dimness.

****

Carl stepped into the Global Weekly Chicago Office and clocked in. Derek clocked in shortly after and approached him with story files. “Carl, I thought you and your family be on vacation, now that it’s summer and school is out, you know”, Derek said, handing Carl the folders.

“Well, with Robert flying a lot, Oliver and Elain both in Chicago, and Samuel, Aneurin, and Mary away at youth camp,” Carl said, flipping through the files without really seeing them, “Donna and I might have a date night later.”

“I see. You’ve heard the latest, right?”

“What’s that?”

“Well, according to those files there, the world currencies has been reduced to three; the euro for Europe and Russia, the yen for Asia, Africa, and the Middle East, and the dollar for North America, South America, and Australia. And the United States has officially acquired of Greenland from Denmark.”

Carl’s mind raced as he stared at the files—Derek’s words confirming Dirk’s cryptic warnings. The world had shifted overnight, and no one seemed to notice. He flipped to the financial section, his fingers trembling slightly as he scanned the fine print: *Currency consolidation effective immediately.* Outside the office window, the Chicago skyline shimmered under the midday sun, oblivious to the tectonic realignment of global power.

He had heard that there had been talked about the United States acquiring Greenland, but he had no idea it would actually happen, and this fast. Carl flipped through the files again, his mind racing with the implications—Greenland's vast resources, its strategic Arctic position, the whispers of rare earth minerals buried beneath its ice. This wasn't just a territorial grab; it was a chess move in a game he was only beginning to understand.

Carl went into his office, and began to process the implication. As a devout Christian, he knew well what the 3 currencies and the US acquiring of Greenland meant. This was a step towards a ten nation confederacy, and then a global currency. The Rapture of the Church still hadn’t happened yet, but from what he had heard at the Men’s Bible Study, there aren’t really any prophetic events that had to take place to set up for the Rapture to happen. It could happen at any moment, and now Carl wondered if it was going to be sooner rather than later. Now with Gog and Magog from Ezekiel 38 having been fulfilled back in January, when Russia, Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Uzbekistan, Turkmenistan, Tajikistan, Turkey, Ethiopia, Libya, Northern Sudan, and Iran had launched a failed attack on Israel, the currencies were down to three, which would soon become one, and the US acquiring of Greenland, which would lead to the United States having to give up some sovereignty to be part of a ten nation confederacy.  So the stage was being set for the Antichrist to rise, and the Rapture could happen at any moment.

The night before, Carl and Donna had a date night—just dinner at their favorite Italian place in Mount Prospect—but now, standing in his office, Carl felt the world tilting beneath him. The financial pages blurred under his fingertips as he envisioned airports full of stranded travelers, highways littered with driverless cars—all the apocalyptic scenarios Pastor Billings had sketched in sermons now clawing at the edges of his reality. He pulled out his phone to text Dirk, then hesitated. His brother would only scoff, call him paranoid. Instead, he opened his Bible app to 1 Thessalonians 4:16-17, the words glowing stark against the screen: *The Lord himself will descend...*

*

Lucille was visiting her childhood home for the summer. Her brother Harold graduated from Prospect High School in June, and the family wanted to celebrate before Harold left for college in the fall. Their sister Cheryl was going to be a sophomore at Prospect High School in the

fall, so she sure was going to miss to have both siblings gone, but she was happy for them.

Harold got accepted into Moody Bible Institute in Chicago, and Lucille couldn't help but feel a mix of pride and unease—Moody was solid theologically, but Harold's increasing fascination with end-times prophecy had taken on an almost obsessive edge.

“We’re sure proud of our Harold”, Mrs. Moise said as she passed Lucille the mashed potatoes—the steam curling upward like incense in the dim dining room light.

“I’m thinking I’m going to be a pastor”, Harold said abruptly, his fork clattering against his plate as he leaned forward—eyes alight with the fervor Lucille had come to dread.

“That is a fine goal to have, son”, Mr. Moise said, wiping gravy from his mustache with a linen napkin.

Lucille felt a cold prickle down her spine as Harold launched into a tangent about the "signs of the times"—Greenland’s acquisition, the currency shifts. Cheryl listened intently, her mashed potatoes forgotten, while Lucille excused herself to the kitchen, pressing her palms against the cold granite countertop. Outside, the summer dusk deepened into purple, the same hue as Harold’s feverish prophecy charts pinned to his bedroom wall. She wondered, not for the first time, if her brother’s zeal was divine or delusional.

*

Carl returned home from his office, and saw Donna reading her Bible. With the three older children out on their own and the three younger away at youth camp, the Burton house was eerily quiet—just the hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of settling floorboards.

“Hon, I was thinking, how about we fly to London to pay Dirk a visit?”, Carl said, tossing his keys onto the foyer table with a metallic clatter.

Donna looked up from her Bible, the thin pages fluttering as she studied him. “Really? But what about Samuel, Aneurin, and Mary who are all at youth camp?”, she asked, her thumb still pressed against Proverbs 3:5-6 like an anchor.

“We’ll be back plenty of time before camp ends,” Carl said, pacing to the kitchen and pulling two glasses from the cabinet—the crystal catching the fading sunlight in fractured prisms.

“Alright then. Then I’m in.”

They’ve decided not to pack very much- just some clothing, toiletries, and their Bibles—Carl’s worn leather-bound one and Donna’s compact travel edition with its dog-eared Psalms. As Carl zips the suitcase shut, his fingers brush against the cold metal of his passport, and for a fleeting second, he imagines airport security scanners humming to life over empty piles of abandoned luggage—belongings left behind in the blink of an eye.

The flight to London was unnervingly smooth—no turbulence, no delays, just the hum of engines and the occasional ding of the seatbelt sign. Carl stared out the window at the endless expanse of clouds, their whiteness too perfect, like fresh linen stretched taut over the world below. Donna dozed beside him, her head tilted against the seatback, but Carl couldn't shake the image of Greenland's icy expanse now stamped with American flags, the ink barely dry on the transfer documents.

After a few hours, the plane landed smoothly at Heathrow. Carl tightened his grip on Donna's hand as they disembarked—the airport bustling with travelers who moved in oblivious waves, their faces lit by phone screens and departure boards. A familiar voice cut through the din: "Took you long enough." Dirk leaned against a pillar, grinning, his leather jacket creaking as he pushed off to embrace them.

“Hey, Dirk”, Donna said warmly, hugging him tight.

“So where are the kids?”

“Three of them are at church youth camp—Samuel, Aneurin, and Mary,” Carl said, scanning Dirk’s face for any flicker of recognition about the implications.

Dirk nodded, and took Carl and Donna to his flat in London—a sleek, modern space with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Thames. The city lights shimmered below like scattered constellations, but Carl's attention was drawn to the corkboard dominating one wall, bristling with red strings connecting newspaper clippings, maps, and scrawled notes.

******

Mary had been asleep in the cabin that she shared with 3 other girls—Rosie tucked securely under her chin—when a sharp knock jolted her awake. She blinked against the thin predawn light filtering through the curtains, her bunkmate groaning into her pillow. “Mary? Your parents called,” Jordan’s voice was low. “They’re in London. Don’t worry, they’ll be back before camp ends, but they wanted you to know.”

“Thank you, Jordan”, Mary said, rubbing her eyes—her fingers brushing Rosie’s fur.

Jordan smiled and closed the door. He had already let Samuel and Aneurin know, but Mary was his last stop. He had noticed how she clung to Rosie tighter these days, her questions deeper, her silences heavier. The campfire talks about prophecy had unsettled her more than the others—he could see it in the way her fingers twitched against the bear’s stitching whenever he mentioned the two witnesses.

Chapter 20

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Have you actually met him?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

**

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*****

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 21 

*****

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

**

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You really believe that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s quite alright.”

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 22

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

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

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

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

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

****

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

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

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

“Welcome home”, Carl said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

****

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 23

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s what I’m hoping, too.“

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

**

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

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

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

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

“London? My uncle lives there.”

“You don’t say.”

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

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

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

Rayford nodded, and patted Robert on the back. "You’re a good kid—I mean, man," he corrected himself with a chuckle, glancing at Hattie, who had begun scrolling through her phone with exaggerated disinterest. The coffee machine hissed behind them, releasing a burst of steam that curled into the air like dissipating tension.

*

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

“Your father has invited a couple of guests over for dinner tonight,” Donna said, stirring the shepherd’s pie filling with one hand while adjusting the oven temperature with the other. The rich aroma of browned meat and thyme filled the kitchen, mingling with the sharp tang of Worcestershire sauce.

“Really? Who is it, Mom?”, Aneurin asked without looking up from his phone, his thumbs tapping the screen rhythmically—too fast, like Morse code for irritation. The blue glow reflected off his cheekbones, sharpening the hollows beneath his eyes.

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

“Oh, yes. They’re Christians, aren’t there?”, Samuel finally spoke, his voice low and distant—like he was still mentally parsing something else entirely. He tapped his laptop’s touchpad absently, the cursor blinking over an unfinished paragraph about Russian military failures.

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

Carl soon came home from work, shrugging off his coat and loosening his tie—his movements deliberate and quiet, like a man trying not to disturb the fragile equilibrium of the household. He paused in the doorway, watching Donna stir the shepherd's pie filling with quick, practiced strokes while Mary lingered near the fridge, her fingers tracing the condensation on a pitcher of lemonade. The kitchen smelled of browned meat and caramelized onions, mingling with the faint metallic tang of the stainless steel appliances. Outside, the Ng's car pulled into the driveway—gravel crunching under tires—and Carl exhaled, straightening his shoulders as the doorbell rang.

Donna answered the door with flour still dusting her forearms, her smile widening as Li Ng stepped inside—her silver bracelets chiming softly against the doorframe.

“Donna, the lady who sold us our home—she’s still as hospitable as the day we signed the papers,” Li said, stepping inside and gave Donna a hug—her bracelets chiming against Donna’s flour-dusted apron.

“You must be Donna’s husband from the Global Weekly. Carl, isn’t it?”, Li’s husband Hàoyú asked, shaking Carl’s hand with a grip that lingered just a second too long—his palm slightly calloused, fingers cool from the winter air.

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

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

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

Carl and Donna introduced the Ngs to Samuel, Aneurin, and Mary. “We also have three other children- Robert, Oliver, and Elain, but they’re out on their own. Robert works for Pan-Con- he’s a second officer pilot navigator- and Oliver and Elain are both in college”, Carl said, gesturing toward the family photos on the mantle—his fingers brushing the frame of Robert’s graduation portrait where his uniform buttons gleamed under the lamplight.

“Hey, I also work for Pan-Con”, Hàoyú said, glancing at the family photos—his fingers hovering near Robert’s uniformed likeness before tapping it lightly, as if testing its solidity. “That pilot kid is your eldest? Small world.” His thumb lingered on the glass, smudging the reflection of Donna wiping her hands on her apron in the background.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So Donna, what gave the idea for a prayer closet?”, Li asked, scraping the last forkful of shepherd’s pie—the crispy potato crust yielding with a satisfying crunch. Her silver bracelets slid down her wrist as she gestured toward the hallway, catching the pendant light’s glow like fragmented scripture.

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

“That’s a good place. Hàoyú and I do our battles in ours, too. Ours has the Scripture of Ephesians 6:18 written on the wall,” Li said, tapping her fork against her plate—the sharp *tink* cutting through the quiet hum of the refrigerator.

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

“Rightfully so. This is a spiritual warfare we are in the midst of, Carl.” Li’s fork clinked against her plate as she spoke—the sound sharper than intended—and Hàoyú’s fingers twitched near his water glass, leaving faint condensation trails on the tablecloth. Mary watched the adults, her own fork suspended mid-air, the steam from her shepherd’s pie curling around her wrist like a question.

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

“Really? Why would they do that?” Li asked, setting her fork down with deliberate care—the silver barely making a sound against the china.

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

“The manager only rents to Caucasians? That’s discrimination! We’ll certainly be praying about this,” Hàoyú said, his fingers tightening around his water glass—condensation dripping onto the tablecloth like silent condemnation.

“When Carl and I were growing up in Wales and North Dakota respectfully, there was some prejudice against the African-Americans and African-British—though it seems to have gotten worse since the political climate shifted,” Donna said quietly, scraping a forkful of crust—her fingers trembling just enough to make the tines click against the plate.

“I learned about prejudice against ethnics in history class at my school Lincoln Middle School, but I have no idea people are still like that,” Mary said, her fork hovering over her plate—the steam curling upward like hesitant words.

“They’re out there, Mary. You know my friend Jared Smith, right? We’ve been so since kindergarten. He’s an African- American but I never think of him as anything other than my friend,” Samuel said, pushing his plate away—the fork scraping ceramic loud enough to make Aneurin flinch.

“Yes, his brother Jay is in my class. He’s the one who brought up Ezekiel’s prophecies when we were assigned that Russia essay,” Mary said, her fork finally descending to push peas into a neat line—each one rolling slightly before settling.

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

“There are some Negroes, and some Hispanics and Latinos. Jay Smith and Lionel Washington are Negroes, and Santiago Perez is Hispanic and Maria Gutierrez is Latino.” Mary hesitated, her fork tracing circles in the gravy—tiny whirlpools forming and collapsing. “But most kids ignore them unless they’re talking about basketball or chores.”

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

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

“Honey, we have some Hispanics and Latinos who work at the Global Weekly Chicago office, and though they are interchangeable terms, there is a difference,” Carl said, wiping gravy from his beard with the back of his hand—the motion rough, distracted, as if he were mentally drafting an editorial footnote. “Hispanic refers to Spanish-speaking countries, while Latino includes Brazil.”

“Does Maria speak Portuguese, then?” Hàoyú asked, his chopsticks hovering over the last bite of shepherd’s pie—the crust flaking under the pressure.

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

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

“You mean like Uncle Dirk’s flat in London, right?”, Samuel said, glancing at Carl—his fork hovering mid-air as gravy dripped onto his plate with a muted *plink*. The overhead light caught the silverware’s tines, casting thin shadows that quivered like divining rods.

As soon as dinner was over, they gathered around in the living room. Hàoyú pulled out a harmonica from his pocket—its polished surface catching the lamplight—and played a folk tune Carl vaguely recognized from his childhood.

Donna showed Li her prayer closet—a converted linen nook with index cards pinned to the walls, each scrawled with names like *Robert’s cynicism*, *Aneurin’s rebellion*, and *Mary’s insecurity* in Donna’s looping cursive. The scent of cedar from the shelves mingled with the faint metallic tang of pushpins pressed too deep into drywall.

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

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

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

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

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

“I haven’t thought about that. Maybe you’re right,” Donna whispered, her fingers brushing the frayed edge of Mary’s prayer card—the paper soft from months of handling, the ink slightly blurred where she’d traced the verse absentmindedly.

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

Chapter 24

*

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, I do. Is he there?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You mean Li and Hàoyú? Wow!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

“Elain is coming home Friday?”

“Yes, your mom called her with our landline. She said she’d stay Friday night—maybe do a slumber party with you.” Carl’s fingers lingered on the quilt’s edge, pressing a loose thread between his thumb and forefinger—the motion absent, deliberate, like he was weighing something unspoken.

“A slumber party? What about Oliver?”

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

“And Robert?”

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

“The house sure got quiet.”

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

“Alright daddy.”

“Goodnight, princess.” Carl kissed Mary’s forehead—his beard scraping softly against her skin—and flicked off the lamp, plunging the room into a darkness broken only by the faint glow of her nightlight. Mary curled tighter around Rosie, her fingers tracing the bear’s worn stitching—the same rhythmic motion she’d used since toddlerhood—as Carl’s footsteps retreated down the hall, each creak of the floorboards marking his distance. Outside, a gust of wind rattled the windowpane, and she watched the curtains flutter like restless ghosts, the streetlamp casting elongated shadows that stretched and shrank with each sway.

**

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

“So what time do we depart?”, Robert asked, stirring his coffee—the spoon clinking against the ceramic like a muted alarm.

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

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

“Oh, yes. Absolutely.”

Robert’s fingers drummed against the cafeteria table—a staccato rhythm that matched the flickering fluorescent light above them. The remains of his sandwich sat abandoned, the crusts curling inward like stale parentheses around an unfinished thought.

*

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

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

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

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

“Thank you, Mom. Where is Mary?”, Elain asked, brushing flour from her sleeve—the particles drifting like tiny ghosts in the afternoon sunlight slanting through the kitchen window.

“Oh, Samuel, Aneurin, and Mary are each doing their homework, but they should be done soon”, Carl said, nodding toward the hall—the faint scratch of pencil on paper drifting from Mary’s cracked bedroom door.

“I’ve also ordered Chicago style Pizza for dinner,” Donna said, her fingers tapping the flour-dusted order slip on the counter—the ink slightly smudged from where she’d checked the time twice.

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

“Elain!” Mary’s voice cracked mid-syllable, the way it sometimes did now—that awkward bridge between childhood and something else.

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

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

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

“Hey, little Sis”, Oliver said, ruffling Mary’s already tangled hair—his fingers catching briefly on a knot that made her wince—before turning toward the kitchen.

“Hey, Oliver”, Mary said shyly.

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

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

“We want to hear all about college life. How’s it going for you both?”, Carl asked Oliver and Elain—his question slicing through the clatter of plates and the sticky pull of melted cheese as Samuel wrestled a slice onto his plate.

“Well, senior year at Chicago State University is pretty intense as you can imagine”, Oliver said, wiping pizza grease from his fingers onto a napkin—the paper sticking to his skin in translucent patches. “Graduation will be in May. I’ve been thinking about applying to grad school—maybe Northwestern?—but I’m still weighing my options.” He glanced at Carl, whose expression remained carefully neutral—only the slight tightening around his eyes betraying the unspoken question about tuition costs.

“As for sophomore year, it’s more intense than last year during my freshman year”, Elain said, dragging a slice of pizza through a pool of grease on her plate—the cheese stretching into translucent strings before snapping.

“Well, I am proud of two of my babies in college,” Donna said, balancing a slice on her fingertips—the cheese stretching dangerously before she caught it with her teeth.

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

“Robert, what a surprise”, Carl said, blinking against the gust of frigid air that rushed past Robert’s shoulders—the scent of jet fuel and winter clinging to his coat as he stepped inside, his boots leaving damp prints on the mat.

“Hey, Dad”, Robert said, shaking snowflakes from his jacket—the melted droplets scattering like tiny diamonds across the foyer tiles. His breath still carried the metallic tang of altitude, his knuckles chapped from cockpit dryness.

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

“Robert! How’d you swing a Friday off?” Oliver asked, pizza sauce smeared at the corner of his mouth as he half-rose from the couch—the cushions sighing under his weight.

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

“Well, we’re glad you did. Mary’s figure skating competition is tomorrow”, Donna said—her fingers drumming against her mug.

 “It’s in Chicago, right?”

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

“I wouldn’t miss it, little sis.”

“So have you learned anything new at Youth Group?”, Oliver asked the three younger children—his question slicing through the comfortable silence that had settled over the room.

“Pastor Jordan’s been doing end time prophecies- both at Youth Group on Wednesday nights and Sunday School on Sunday morning”, Samuel said with a grin—his fingers drumming against the couch armrest in a rhythm that matched the ticking grandfather clock.

“Pastor Billings has been doing the same during Sunday service”, Carl said, folding his pizza crust into a tight triangle—the gesture precise, like he was tucking away loose ends of a thought.

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

“She was a toddler then. She probably couldn’t say ‘Jordan’ properly,” Robert chuckled, flicking a crumb off his sleeve—the motion sharp, like he was swatting away a memory.

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

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

“Wow Mary! You’ve got your own workstation now?” Elain said, tapping the MacBook’s lid—the Apple logo glowing faintly in the lamplight.

“Daddy brought me that from a guy who’s a tech expert,” Mary said, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear—the gesture quick, practiced, like she’d rehearsed the explanation before.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The tea party and slumber party was a night filled with laughter, storytelling, and shared memories. Elain brushed Mary’s hair—the bristles catching on tangles that made Mary wince—while recounting her dorm escapades, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper when describing the RA’s midnight patrols. Mary listened, clutching Rosie tighter whenever Elain’s stories veered toward college parties, her fingers tracing the bear’s frayed stitching like a talisman against the unfamiliar world of adulthood looming ahead.

“My roommate, a Pakistani-Jew named Addi Eliraz, is a sweetheart. She loves hearing about my childhood,” Elain said, giving Mary two braids—her fingers working quickly against Mary’s blond hair—before tying them off with pink ribbons.

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

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

Elain looked at the time on her purple iPhone, and saw it was getting late. The girls went to brush their teeth and Mary, holding Rosie, climbed into her bed. Elain climbed into her bed with purple pajamas—the fabric still stiff from the packaging—as Mary clicked off the bedside lamp, plunging the room into a darkness broken only by the faint glow of her nightlight. Outside, the wind picked up again, rattling the windowpane like an impatient visitor, and Mary curled tighter around Rosie.

Chapter 25

****

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you a doctor here?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

****

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, perhaps.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

****

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 26

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, she did. Why?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah. What time?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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