Write to Life blog

Unscripted — Week 2: Presence, the Quiet Skill You Already Have

Welcome to Unscripted, a weekly reflection on what it means to live without inherited stories, rigid identities, or predetermined purpose. Each Monday, I explore a different part of this shift toward presence and clarity—one moment, one breath, one pencil stroke at a time.

Presence is often spoken about as if it were rare, advanced, or difficult to attain. Something earned through discipline, training, or years of practice. Something monks cultivate and the rest of us chase.

But presence isn’t something you acquire. It’s something you notice.

You already have it.

What most of us lack isn’t presence—it’s permission to trust it.

What Presence Is (and Isn’t)

Presence isn’t calm. It isn’t silence. It isn’t the absence of thought. It isn’t a permanent state you arrive at and stay in.

Presence is simply being aware of what is happening right now—without immediately trying to fix it, explain it, judge it, or escape it.

It’s the moment you notice your breath without controlling it. The instant you realize you’ve been lost in thought. The pause before a reaction. The awareness that you’re thinking.

Presence is not the elimination of noise. It’s the recognition of it.

And that recognition is already happening—whether you’re aware of it or not.

Why Presence Feels Elusive

If presence is already here, why does it feel so hard to access?

Because we’ve been trained, from early on, to live one step removed from direct experience.

We’re taught to interpret before we feel. To evaluate before we notice. To assign meaning before we sit with what’s happening.

Most of our lives are spent inside commentary:

  • What this means
  • What this says about me
  • What I should do next
  • How this fits into a larger story

Presence doesn’t live in commentary. It lives before it.

And the mind is very good at pulling us back into narration.

Presence and the Pencil

This is where the pencil matters.

A pencil doesn’t rush. It doesn’t jump ahead. It moves line by line.

When you write with a pencil—physically or metaphorically—you’re forced to slow down enough to stay with what’s here. One word at a time. One stroke at a time.

You can’t write tomorrow’s sentence today. You can’t revise what hasn’t been written yet.

The pencil keeps you honest. It keeps you present.

This is why writing—journaling, reflecting, sketching thoughts—is such a powerful doorway into presence. Not because it produces something, but because it requires attention.

Presence Is Not a Performance

One of the great misunderstandings about presence is the belief that it should look a certain way.

Calm. Peaceful. Centered. Spiritual.

But presence includes:

  • restlessness
  • frustration
  • boredom
  • doubt
  • fatigue
  • grief
  • joy

Presence isn’t a mood. It’s a relationship to whatever mood is here.

You don’t become present by fixing your inner state. You become present by seeing it clearly.

The moment you notice, “I’m distracted,” presence is already operating. The moment you realize, “I’m anxious,” presence is already here.

You didn’t fail. You woke up.

The Skill You’re Already Using

Think about the last time you caught yourself daydreaming. Or replaying a conversation. Or worrying about something that hasn’t happened.

What noticed that?

That noticing didn’t come from thought. It came before thought.

That’s presence.

You don’t need to build it. You don’t need to strengthen it. You don’t need to protect it.

You only need to stop overlooking it.

Presence is not fragile. It’s constant.

What comes and goes is attention.

Presence and Living Without a Script

Living without a script doesn’t mean living without plans or structure. It means not confusing your plans with reality.

Presence keeps you grounded in what’s actually happening, rather than what should be happening.

When you live from presence:

  • you respond instead of react
  • you listen instead of preparing a reply
  • you notice when a belief no longer fits
  • you feel when it’s time to let something go

Presence doesn’t give you answers. It gives you clarity.

And clarity changes everything.

Practicing Presence (Without Making It Another Task)

Here’s the paradox: The moment you try to do presence, you lose it.

Presence isn’t practiced by effort. It’s practiced by noticing.

A few gentle invitations—not instructions:

  • Notice when you’re lost in thought.
  • Notice the sensation of sitting where you are.
  • Notice the sound furthest from you.
  • Notice the impulse to move away from discomfort.
  • Notice the next breath—without changing it.

Nothing to improve. Nothing to hold onto. Nothing to achieve.

Just noticing.

And when you forget? That noticing is the practice.

Presence Is Enough

Presence doesn’t promise happiness. It doesn’t promise peace. It doesn’t promise certainty.

What it offers is something quieter and more reliable:

honesty.

From that honesty, life begins to untangle itself—not all at once, but moment by moment.

The Pencil-Driven Life isn’t built on constant awareness. It’s built on repeated noticing.

A thousand small returns.

You don’t need a better technique. You don’t need more discipline. You don’t need to become someone else.

You already have the quiet skill you’re looking for.

It’s here— now.

And now.

And now.

Unscripted — Week 1: What It Means to Live Without a Script

Welcome to Unscripted, a weekly reflection on what it means to live without inherited stories, rigid identities, or predetermined purpose. Each Monday, I explore a different part of this shift toward presence and clarity—one moment, one breath, one pencil stroke at a time.

Why losing the old storyline becomes freedom rather than loss

For most of my life, I lived by a script I didn’t write.

Not a literal script—not words typed on a page or spoken into a microphone—but a story that explained who I was supposed to be and why. A story that laid out what mattered and what didn’t. A story filled with expectations, obligations, and roles assigned long before I ever had the space or courage to question them.

You probably have a script too. Most people do.

It’s the quiet narrative running beneath everything: This is who I am.This is what I’m supposed to want.This is why my life matters.This is what success looks like.This is what I must protect at all costs.

Scripts are powerful in the way gravity is powerful. You don’t notice them until you try to step outside their pull.

For years, I didn’t. I followed the story I had inherited, edited it lightly at times, rearranged chapters here and there, but never questioned its authorship. It felt like life. It felt like purpose. It felt like meaning.

And then one day—quietly, without drama—the script stopped working.

Not because of a crisis. Not because of a grand revelation. But because something inside me simply saw through it. The storyline I had used to understand myself suddenly felt too small, too tight, too noisy. And once that unraveling began, it didn’t stop. What once felt like identity now felt like confinement.

That unraveling is what eventually became The Pencil-Driven Life.

And this post—this first post in a new chapter of writing—is an attempt to name what it actually means to live without a script.

Not as an idea. Not as a philosophy. But as a daily, lived experience.

The Feel of Life Without a Script

Most people hear “living without a script” and imagine chaos or impulsiveness or aimlessness. But it’s none of those things.

Living without a script doesn’t mean abandoning your life. It means no longer forcing life to match a predetermined storyline.

It means dropping the old belief that you must always be “on track.” It means letting go of the constant self-surveillance that comes from comparing your real life to the fictional one in your head.

It means waking up without the burden of being someone.

When you live without a script:

  • You don’t need your life to make sense on paper.
  • You stop trying to justify every choice.
  • You don’t spend your days defending an identity.
  • You no longer audition for approval—your own or anyone else’s.
  • You begin to notice what’s actually happening instead of what “should” be happening.

Freedom doesn’t arrive with fireworks. It arrives quietly, like a breath you didn’t know you were holding finally releasing.

When the Old Storyline Falls Away

Losing your script doesn’t feel like liberation at first. It feels like disorientation—like stepping outside in the morning and noticing the temperature has changed without warning.

You reach for the old storyline out of habit. You try to reassemble it. You try to reason your way back into certainty.

But eventually you see the truth: What you lost wasn’t security. It was constraint.

The old storyline told me who I was supposed to be. It told me what a “good life” looked like. It told me what counted and what didn’t. It told me what to chase and what to avoid.

Letting go of that storyline didn’t erase meaning. It revealed meaning.

Meaning wasn’t in the script. Meaning was in the moment-to-moment clarity that emerges when you’re no longer trying to live in a story.

Life as It Is, Not as It Was Written

One of the surprises of living without a script is how ordinary it feels.

Not dull—ordinary.

The ordinary becomes spectacular when you are not reaching past it for something shinier or more “meaningful.” You begin to see:

  • The way the light falls through the window in the morning
  • The simple pleasure of making coffee
  • The breath of a dog sleeping beside you
  • The grain of a board you’re sanding in the Hub
  • The frost on the runway at sunrise
  • The stillness of a cabin before the fire warms it

None of these are “achievements.” None belong in a résumé. None advance a storyline.

But they make up a life—one that unfolds with quiet clarity when you stop trying to force it to behave like a three-act structure.

And here’s the strange part:

When you stop trying to control life, the day seems to cooperate on its own terms.

You’re not fighting with time anymore. You’re not measuring yourself against an imagined version of who you “should” have been. You’re not chasing a purpose. You’re living.

Fully. Simply. Honestly.

The Script Was Never You

It takes time to see this clearly.

For years, I thought the story I had inherited—religious purpose, professional identity, certainty—was my life. I thought stepping out of that story meant stepping into danger or meaninglessness.

But the script wasn’t me. It was something placed on top of me.

When it fell away, I didn’t disappear. I appeared.

Awareness remained. Presence remained. Life remained.

The script was the illusion. The clarity beneath it was the truth.

The Pencil-Driven Life Begins Here

Living without a script isn’t rebellion. It’s not self-improvement. It’s not minimalism or philosophy or technique.

It’s the simple recognition that life does not need a storyline in order to be meaningful.

Life is meaningful because you are here to witness it.

The Pencil-Driven Life isn’t about writing a better script; it’s about noticing the movement beneath the story—moment by moment, breath by breath.

Some days, the pencil moves quickly. Some days, hardly at all. Some days, it writes things you didn’t expect. Some days, it refuses to write anything at all.

But in every case, you’re not forcing it. You’re watching. You’re present. You’re alive inside the immediacy of the moment rather than inside an inherited narrative about what your life ought to become.

This simple shift—attention instead of expectation, presence instead of purpose—is the beginning of freedom.

A Final Word for This First Monday

This new chapter on the website isn’t a rebrand; it’s a revelation of what’s been happening quietly for years.

Oak Hollow has become the place where this philosophy is lived out in real time. This blog will be where it is articulated.

If you’ve lived your life inside someone else’s script, or even inside a script you once wrote for yourself but can’t bear to follow anymore, then you are already standing at the threshold of something larger.

Not a new storyline. A new way of seeing.

There is nothing to achieve. Nothing to prove. Nothing to become.

There is only this moment—clear, unburdened, unwritten—and the life unfolding inside it.

Let’s see where the pencil moves next.

—Richard

A New Beginning at The Pencil-Driven Life

Why the website changed — and what comes next

For most of my life, I lived inside stories I didn’t write—beliefs I inherited, purposes assigned to me, expectations handed down long before I ever had a chance to choose my own path. I didn’t recognize how small that space had become until everything began to unravel.

That unraveling led me toward something quieter: presence, clarity, and the freedom to live moment by moment.

Over time, that shift grew into a philosophy, then a lived practice, and now a body of work called The Pencil-Driven Life.

If you’ve visited this website before, you may notice it looks very different.
Here’s why.

Life at Oak Hollow

Much of this transformation has taken place on our seventy-acre property in North Alabama—land we call Oak Hollow.

What began as a simple place to live has become an ongoing experiment in presence:

  • building off-grid cabins
  • creating quiet spaces to think and breathe
  • walking trails at sunrise
  • tending a greenhouse
  • caring for seven rescued dogs
  • letting each day unfold without a script

Oak Hollow isn’t a cabin rental business.
It’s where The Pencil-Driven Life is lived out in real time.

You’ll see glimpses of these moments, projects, and reflections on @thepencildrivenlife, because they’re inseparable from the philosophy itself.

What’s Changing on the Website

This site used to focus heavily on story coaching and Fictionary editing. I’m grateful for that chapter—my training sharpened the way I understand story and, ultimately, the way I understand life.

But I no longer offer story coaching as a profession.

The work ahead of me now is different:

  • writing The Pencil-Driven Life — Volume 1
  • creating the companion workbook
  • sharing daily reflections
  • continuing the Boaz novels
  • documenting the work happening at Oak Hollow
  • and exploring presence in ordinary life

Story still matters deeply—just not as a service.
It’s become a lens.

Where We Go From Here

You’ll see more writing here about:

  • presence
  • simplicity
  • letting go
  • finding clarity
  • creative life at Oak Hollow
  • writing as awareness
  • questioning inherited stories
  • living lightly and honestly

The Pencil-Driven Life isn’t about reaching a destination.
It’s about noticing what’s already here.

Thank you for walking with me into this next chapter.
Let’s see where the pencil moves from here.

—Richard

Fictionary’s Story Elements: Backstory

Backstory is one of the most powerful—and most misunderstood—tools in storytelling. Done well, it deepens characters, explains motivations, and anchors readers in the world of the story. Done poorly, it becomes an information dump that stalls the narrative and risks losing the reader.

Why Backstory Matters

Backstory is the story that happens before page one. It shapes who your characters are when the novel begins. Often, it’s tied to an event that hurt them, created a flaw, or established a driving motivation. Without it, characters may feel flat or unconvincing. But too much backstory, especially early on, can overwhelm readers with explanation instead of action.

Think of backstory as seasoning—not the whole meal. Sprinkled in at the right time, it makes the main story richer. Poured out all at once, it overshadows the actual narrative.

A great example comes from The Girl With All the Gifts by M.R. Carey. Early on, Carey drops intriguing pieces of backstory that raise questions without fully answering them: children are rare, they arrive and disappear, and something ominous is happening behind the scenes. The effect? Curiosity drives the reader forward.

Using Backstory Effectively

As editors, we look for balance. Backstory should serve a purpose:

  • Too Little: The reader feels lost, unsure why a character behaves the way they do.
  • Too Much: The reader is dragged out of the story by an info dump.
  • Irrelevant: The backstory doesn’t connect to character motivations, flaws, or the plot.

When a scene leans too heavily on explanation, one option is to convert backstory into action or even a flashback. This way, the reader experiences the past with the character rather than being told about it.

Equally important is timing. Ask: Does the reader need this information right now? Or could it wait until later in the story? Curiosity fuels engagement—don’t answer every question too soon.

Advice for Writers

Here’s what to keep in mind as you revise:

  • Anchor your backstory in character pain or motivation—something that still matters in the present story.
  • Spread it out strategically. Let readers discover the past in small, meaningful doses.
  • Avoid irrelevant details. If a revelation about your character’s past doesn’t affect the plot or deepen the character, cut it.
  • If you find yourself front-loading chapters with paragraphs of explanation, consider moving some of that material later.
  • Remember: curiosity keeps the pages turning. Keep the reader wondering.

Final Thought

Backstory is powerful, but only when it’s relevant, strategically placed, and connected to your characters’ flaws and goals. Your job is to use it to deepen the emotional impact of the present story—not replace it.

As you review your manuscript, use the Story Map to track backstory in each scene. Are you giving the reader just enough to understand and stay intrigued, or weighing them down with too much too soon?

Backstory should whisper, not shout.

Revelation: The Moment That Changes Everything

Fictionary’s Story Elements Series | The Pencil’s Edge

✨ Why Revelation Matters

Stories move forward when characters learn something new—something big enough to change their trajectory. This is the heartbeat of revelation.

A great revelation doesn’t just pass through a character’s mind like a stray fact—it jolts them. It forces a decision, shifts their approach, or sparks a transformation. And for the reader, these moments are electric, because they invite a question:

Now that the character knows this, what will they do?

That question keeps pages turning.

🔍 What Counts as a Revelation?

  • It’s not backstory. Backstory explains the past; revelation alters the present.
  • It’s not random trivia. If it doesn’t impact the plot or character arc, it’s not a revelation—it’s filler.
  • It’s plot-relevant. A revelation changes stakes, clarifies a mystery, deepens character motivation, or alters alliances.

Example:
A detective learns the prime suspect’s alibi was fabricated. That discovery doesn’t just add flavor—it demands action.

📖 Reader + Character = Shared Discovery

The most engaging revelations allow the reader to discover the truth alongside the POV character. This builds anticipation and deepens emotional investment.

When the reader learns something before the character, that’s Reader Knowledge Gained (another Fictionary element). When the character knows but the reader doesn’t, you’re playing with suspense. Both have their place—but Revelation is about the shared “Aha!” moment.

⚖️ The Timing Test

One of the biggest editorial challenges with revelations is timing. Too soon, and you deflate tension. Too late, and readers feel manipulated.

In Fictionary’s Story Map, you’ll flag revelations with notes such as:

  • Too Early — Could be delayed for greater impact.
  • Too Late — Needed sooner for logic or pacing.
  • Too Much — Could be revealed in pieces to stretch tension.
  • Too Little — Lacks clarity, leaving the reader confused.
  • Too Many — Rapid-fire reveals without reaction space.

🛠 Using Fictionary to Track Revelations

When reviewing a manuscript:

  1. Identify the Revelation — What is learned? Who learns it?
  2. Check for Consistency — Does the revelation align with established facts?
  3. Verify Knowledge Flow — Can the character plausibly know this yet?
  4. Assess Timing — Would shifting the moment improve suspense or pacing?
  5. Ensure Impact — Does it prompt a decision, change, or emotional shift?

💡 In the Story Map, select:

  • Scene Name
  • Revelation

This makes it easy to see where key truths land in the narrative.

🧠 Case Study: Mystery Example

In Louise Penny’s Kingdom of the Blind, imagine Gamache learns halfway through the investigation that a trusted ally has been lying.

  • The revelation: His ally has been working for the opposing side.
  • The result: Gamache changes strategy, stops sharing intel, and begins a covert counter-investigation.

That’s revelation at work—truth alters action.

🚫 Common Revelation Pitfalls

  • Unrelated: Feels tacked on, with no real bearing on plot or character.
  • Implausible: A character references information they couldn’t possibly know.
  • Pacing Glut: Multiple revelations back-to-back without allowing the character (or reader) to process.
  • Loose Threads: Major revelations that are never addressed again.

🧭 Advice for Writers

  • Breadcrumb first — Lay subtle clues so the revelation feels earned.
  • Make it costly — Force your character to react in a way that has consequences.
  • Give space to react — Let both character and reader absorb the weight of what’s been learned.
  • Match to tone — A comedic story might reveal truth in a humorous twist; a thriller might drop it in a high-stakes chase.

📌 Final Thought

Revelation is one of the most satisfying tools in storytelling.
Handled well, it reshapes the story in an instant—changing the character’s path, altering the reader’s expectations, and keeping tension alive.

Handled poorly, it risks breaking trust with your reader.

So when a truth drops in your story, make sure it’s timed, earned, and heavy enough to tilt the axis of your character’s world.

Without Conflict, There Is No Story

📍 Back in the Flow
Returning to this series after my biking injury recovery has reminded me how foundational structure is—not just in healing, but in writing. And if there’s one element that defines the heartbeat of a scene, it’s this one: Conflict.

Let’s explore why conflict isn’t just helpful—it’s essential.

🎯 What Is Conflict, and Why Is It Crucial?

Conflict is where story lives.

Whether it’s an argument, a race against time, or a quiet dinner filled with unspoken tension, conflict gives a scene its stakes. It puts a character’s desire in jeopardy—and when something’s at risk, we as readers lean in.

As Fictionary teaches:
“You need both conflict and tension to keep your reader engaged. You don’t need both in every scene, but you should have one.”

In short: Tension is the threat; Conflict is the clash. Both drive your story forward. One must be present in every scene.

🧠 Two Faces of Conflict

1. In-Your-Face Conflict

These are the bold moments—fights, arguments, chases, showdowns.

Example: A woman clings to the edge of a boat while her aggressor tries to shove her overboard.

2. Subtle Conflict

These are the scenes that hum beneath the surface—emotionally charged conversations, quiet betrayals, unresolved power dynamics.

Example: During a group dinner, a woman shares a story. Her husband interrupts to “correct” her. She grits her teeth, smiles, and finishes his version.

Both are valid. Both create friction. Both give the reader something to feel.

🛠 Using Fictionary to Track Conflict

In Fictionary’s StoryCoach software, every scene is evaluated for Conflict:

  • ✅ Mark with a √ when the conflict is present and effective.
  • ❌ Enter “None” if there’s no real struggle or opposing force.
  • ⚠️ Use “Too Little”, “Too Much”, or “Unrelated” to flag imbalance or irrelevance.
  • 🗣️ Use “Dialogue Length” when lengthy speech reduces the force of the conflict.

💡 On the Story Map, select:

  • Scene Name
  • Conflict
  • Tension

Seeing these side by side helps identify weak points in story propulsion.

📚 Case Study: Kingdom of the Blind by Louise Penny

Inspector Gamache and Myrna meet a stranger in a snowbound cabin.

  • Conflict: The stranger wants them to sign a document without knowing why they’re there.
  • Gamache & Myrna’s goal: Understand before they act.

The scene simmers with tension (the collapsing cabin) and delivers conflict through opposing character goals.

This interplay is the kind of storytelling Fictionary helps you recognize—and replicate.

🧾 Advice for Writers: Building Believable Conflict

Here’s what to check when evaluating your own scenes:

  1. Is there an obstacle to the POV character’s goal?
  2. Does that obstacle feel real and plot-related?
  3. Is the conflict emotional, physical, internal, or interpersonal?
  4. Does the dialogue advance the tension—or slow it down?
  5. Are your key structural scenes (Inciting Incident, Plot Points, Midpoint, Climax) filled with heightened conflict?

If not, it’s time to revise.

❗ Common Conflict Pitfalls

  • Contrived dialogue that manufactures drama without purpose
  • Conflict that feels unrelated to the main plot
  • Scenes with no friction or easy outcomes
  • Excessive arguments that numb the reader
  • Revealing too much too soon, reducing stakes

The best conflict aligns with your character’s deepest wants—and blocks them from getting it.

🧭 Use the Story Map to Visualize Conflict

Once your full draft is in Fictionary:

  • Select Scene Name + Conflict + Tension
  • Look for scenes marked “None,” “Too Little,” or “Unrelated”
  • Focus revision efforts where conflict and tension are weak or mismatched

💡 Pro Tip: Include a screenshot of this Story Map when sharing feedback with editors or critique partners. It helps visualize the peaks and valleys of your story’s emotional energy.

🔁 Final Thought

Conflict is not optional.

It’s the crucible in which your characters are tested—and where your readers decide to stay with you or walk away.

So don’t play it safe. Put goals in jeopardy. Challenge your characters. Risk disagreement. Raise stakes.

Because without conflict… there is no story.

Millie’s Daughter–first ten chapters

Chapter 1

Millie’s hand trembled as she steered her twenty-year-old Sentra down South Princeton Avenue. She caught her reflection in the rearview mirror – honey-blonde hair escaping its neat twist, green eyes shadowed with exhaustion. At thirty-two, she still turned heads, but lately stress had etched fine lines around her eyes and mouth, aging her beyond her years.

The setting sun cast long shadows across Fuller Park’s tired streets, transforming familiar landmarks into ominous silhouettes. Tony’s Pizza. The convenience store. The dry cleaners. Each one bringing her closer to home, closer to him.

She’d stayed late at the law firm deliberately, letting the going-away gathering stretch on until most had left. Only Matt and Catherine remained, hovering close, their concern palpable. Matt had pulled her aside, pressed five hundred dollars into her palm. “I hate losing the best paralegal I’ve ever had,” he’d whispered, “but your secret is safe with me. Forever.”

The pizza box on the passenger seat filled the car with the aroma of peppers and onions. Her stomach churned – not from hunger, but from the knowledge that Colton would already be home. He always was on Thursdays.

Two blocks from home, she saw his truck in the driveway. No lights shone in the windows of their fifty-year-old duplex. Her chest tightened. Darkness meant trouble.

Millie parked on the street, gathering her purse, computer bag, and the pizza box with deliberate slowness. The porch light should have been on. It was one of his rules, like dinner by 5:30, whether he was home or not. Like keeping Molly – sweet, twelve-year-old Molly – cooking and cleaning as if she were hired help instead of a child.

The wooden steps creaked under her feet as she climbed. She hadn’t seen him in the shadows until his gravelly voice cut through the December chill.

“About time you got home. Where’s Molly?”

Her heart slammed against her ribs. Colton sat in the porch swing, a dark outline against darker shadows. “Damn, you scared me to death,” she managed. “What’s up with the porch light?”

Wrong response. She knew it the moment the words left her mouth. Colton’s shape rose from the swing, unfolding to his full height. “I asked you where Molly is.” His voice dropped lower, a warning sign she’d learned too late. “How many times do I have to tell you I want my dinner no later than 5:30, hot and on the table whether you’re here or not?”

Last week’s bruises throbbed at his tone. Fourth assault in twelve months. Each one worse than the last. Each one pushing her closer to this moment, to the plans she’d started making, to the job waiting in New York City thanks to Matt. A thousand miles might be enough distance. Might be.

“She’s with a friend, studying for a big exam tomorrow.” The lie came easily – Molly was indeed with a friend, having her last sleepover with Alisha Maynard. Best friends since kindergarten, the girls were inseparable. Tomorrow will change that forever. “I tried calling you.” This part was true, though she knew Westrock didn’t allow personal calls during shifts. Thank God he hated cell phones.

Colton followed her inside, his footsteps heavy behind her. The cramped apartment felt smaller with him in it, the air thicker. “Something’s going on. I can smell it.”

Millie cleared breakfast dishes from the table, her movements careful, measured. Had she slipped somewhere? Given away her plans? The pizza box trembled slightly in her hands as she set it down. If she could just get him eating, he might calm down. For a while.

“Teachers don’t give big exams the last day before Christmas break.” His voice carried the smug certainty of a predator sensing weakness. “I know you’re lying.”

He was right, of course. Millie set down plates, weighing her options. Sometimes admitting to a small lie diffused his anger. “You’re correct about the exam,” she said softly. “I made the decision. Molly needs a break. She deserves a little fun every once in a while. We both know she never complains even though she does all the cooking, housekeeping, and laundry around here.”

Colton crammed half a slice of pizza in his mouth and stalked to the refrigerator. The beer can hissed as he popped it open. Millie’s muscles tensed, reading the signs: the rigid set of his shoulders, the controlled movements, the silence. She was already turning when he threw the can.

She tried to block it, but the aluminum edge caught her above the right eye. Sharp pain exploded through her skull as warm blood ran down her face. The room tilted. Through the fog of pain and nausea, she heard his familiar refrain.

“I’m sorry, but you need to remember the rules around here.”

Millie nodded, pressing a dishrag against the wound as she stumbled to the bathroom. In the mirror, blood dripped onto the sink as she examined the cut. Three inches long. Deep. The edge of the can had sliced clean, like a knife.

It was 11:30 before she returned from the Emergency Room, one hundred and fifty dollars poorer and twenty-three stitches richer. Colton was already asleep. As always, he’d left a note on her pillow.

“I’m sorry but know I love you.”

Millie stood in the darkness, blood crusted in her hair, staring at his handwriting. Tomorrow. Tomorrow she and Molly will be gone. She’d given him a year too long already, but now, finally, she had somewhere to go. A job waiting. A plan.

A thousand miles might be enough distance.

Might be.

Chapter 2

The electric toothbrush’s whir pulled Millie from unconsciousness – her seven-day-per-week alarm clock. She kept her eyes closed, processing. Most mornings started with a headache, but today’s brought lightning bolts of pain that forced memory to the surface: the beer can’s trajectory, the Emergency Room’s harsh fluorescent lights, twenty-three careful stitches.

A smile crept across her face as she threw back the covers and planted her feet on the cold hardwood floor. The room swam. She steadied herself, fingers gripping the mattress edge. Today was different. Today she was leaving.

“Morning.” Colton’s voice drifted from the bathroom doorway, drawn out like thick icing on a birthday cake. The good Colton, the morning after Colton, smooth and contrite.

Millie wobbled to her feet, backing against the bed for support. “Hey,” was all she could manage. The word felt too intimate, but ‘morning’ would have been worse. She needed coffee, needed her mind clear.

She glanced at the digital clock: 5:10. Colton was fifteen minutes ahead of schedule. “Don’t worry about breakfast,” he said. “I’ve got an early meeting.” She nodded, meeting his eyes. Soft like butter now, not the steel of last night.

In the hallway, she shuffled toward the bathroom, managing a slight smile he couldn’t see. Thank God. No elaborate breakfast to prepare. No eggs with exactly five shakes of Tabasco sauce, no homemade biscuits while he cleaned his guns or watched Fox News.

The mirror revealed what she expected: her right eye swollen nearly shut, the neat line of black stitches stark against purple flesh. She stared at her reflection, at a face that looked sixty-two instead of thirty-two. After swallowing three Tylenol, she heard Colton behind her.

His handsome face appeared in the mirror beside her disfigured one. He smiled, planted a kiss on her left cheek. “I’ve got to run. Tell Molly I missed her.” A pause. “Don’t worry about dinner. It’s a surprise.”

The words weren’t impressive. The bad Colton always consumed the good Colton. His face disappeared. Seconds later, the front door opened and closed. The Dodge Ram’s engine growled to life.

Millie hurried to the front window, watching until the truck turned onto South Princeton. Without fear, she whispered a mantra as she descended the stairs: “Freedom is waiting, come get it.”

Her only regret was the house. The hundred-and-nine-year-old brick duplex had cost $66,000 in 2012, her first year as a full-fledged paralegal at Quinn Law Firm. She was twenty-five then, Molly just five, about to be held back from starting kindergarten at Harvard Elementary after that terrifying false alarm with leukemia. But the house was a small price to pay for escape, for protecting Molly, who at twelve was involuntarily tempting Colton’s wandering eyes.

She forced down a cold slice of pizza and a large cup of coffee. Habit made her pour the remaining coffee down the sink, dump the grounds in the trash. “Okay, okay,” she answered the voice in her head asking, “what are you doing?” Habits were hard to break.

Her hands trembled slightly as she pulled out her phone and opened the Bank of America app. The secret account showed $1,846.28 – six months of careful planning, skimming twenty or thirty dollars from each grocery trip, saying she’d lost receipts, claiming higher copays than actual. The deception had gnawed at her, but survival required it.

Matt’s five hundred would help, but it wasn’t enough. Even with the job at Bird & Foley starting January second at sixty-five thousand – fifteen thousand more than she made at Quinn Law – the numbers were tight. First month’s rent and deposit on the studio would eat $2,000. They’d need at least another thousand for basic furnishings, probably more. Then utilities, food, subway passes…

The joint account she shared with Colton showed $3,892.41. Her direct deposit from yesterday – $1,623 after taxes – sat there with his Westrock paycheck. She wouldn’t touch it. The moment she withdrew anything; his phone would ping with an alert. Besides, stealing from him would only give him more ammunition to hunt them down.

At least they had the 401K. The $32,468 Matt was holding would be their safety net once they reached New York. After taxes and early withdrawal penalties, maybe twenty-three thousand. It would have to be enough.

Her mother’s voice echoed in her head: “Always have fuck-you money, baby. Every woman needs an escape fund.” She’d ignored that advice two years ago when she let Colton move in. Never again.

She deleted the Bank of America app and cleared her browser history. In a few hours, they’d withdraw every penny from her secret account. Until then, she had to focus on getting Molly out of school and themselves on the road east. They had enough for now. They had to have enough.

Upstairs, she packed two duffel bags with clothes and toiletries, gathered Molly’s extensive collection of stuffed animals. She handled each one with care, especially Maverick, the black llama that had been Molly’s constant companion for the past three years. The eighteen-inch-tall plush toy, with its banana-shaped ears and proud stance, always had the place of honor among the four dozen other animals. Beneath Maverick lay a stack of photos – mostly of Molly and Alisha, arms linked, grinning at school events, birthday parties, summer afternoons. Six years of friendship captured in snapshots. Millie added them to the bag, knowing these memories would have to sustain her daughter until they were truly safe. She packed them all carefully into a large garbage bag, knowing how much these silent friends meant to her daughter. Whatever else they needed, they could buy in New York. She changed into jeans and a sweatshirt, hesitant at Colton’s nightstand. The S&W 357 lay there, tempting. After a moment’s deliberation, she lifted it, feeling its weight. Protection, a voice whispered in her mind. But another voice, stronger and clearer, countered: stealing his gun would only enrage him further, give him more reason to hunt them down. She returned it to the nightstand. They needed to vanish, not escalate.

Everything fit in the twenty-year-old Sentra’s trunk. Back inside, she sat at the kitchen table with a notepad.

“Colton, Molly and I have moved out. This shouldn’t catch you by surprise. You know it’s been coming. Please don’t try to find us. You will not be welcome. I’m tired of being your punching bag.

The house and everything in it are yours. I think that’s a fair settlement. You can rent out one of the units like you’ve always wanted to.

Matthew is the only person who’ll know how to contact me, but please, only contact him when your case is set for trial. I’ll decide then whether to be your alibi witness. I’m sure you know that it depends on you staying away from Molly and me. It’s up to you.

Goodbye, Millie.”

She stuffed the note into an envelope, printed his name across the front. Simple, direct – like ripping off a bandage. The less said, the better. Any attempt to mislead him would only make him more suspicious, more determined to hunt them down. The best strategy was to vanish without a trace.

The morning stretched ahead: Harvard Elementary to withdraw Molly, then New York City. A thousand miles of distance. A new job. A new life.

If they could make it that far.

──────

Millie parked the Sentra on South Harvard Avenue, scanning the street before killing the engine. No sign of Colton’s truck, but her neck prickled. He had friends at Westrock who lived nearby.

Harvard Elementary loomed before her, brick and solid, Molly’s only school since kindergarten. Through the window, she watched two mothers walk their children inside, remembering easier mornings. Another thing Colton was taking from them.

Principal Aisha McCarthy was behind the counter when Millie entered the office, the phone pressed to her ear. Their eyes met, and understanding passed between them. Today wasn’t just the last day before Christmas break. For Molly, it was the last day ever.

Voices drifted in from the hallway – Molly and her writing teacher, Chanel Thorton, deep in animated discussion about character development. Even in her simple school clothes, Molly drew attention without trying. She moved with a natural elegance that made her stand out among her peers, her copper hair catching the fluorescent lights like burnished metal. Alisha often joked that her best friend would be famous someday, and looking at Molly now, her fine-boned face alive with intelligence and charm, it wasn’t hard to imagine. Molly’s eyes kept darting to the classroom across the hall where Alisha would be arriving any minute. They’d promised not to say goodbye – it would be too suspicious, too final – but Molly had memorized every moment of last night’s sleepover, their last time together. At twelve, Molly was already crafting stories that made her teachers notice, most of them featuring two best friends who could overcome any obstacle. Millie’s chest tightened. She should have told Chanel too. For two years, the writing teacher had been Molly’s chief engineer, transforming a lackadaisical attitude about school into passionate curiosity.

“Mom, what happened?” Molly rushed to her; eyes fixed on the swollen mass of twenty-three stitches above Millie’s eye. They embraced, and Millie whispered in her daughter’s ear.

“I’ll ask for help next time I need something from the top shelf.” She rolled her eyes. “Clumsy me.” The lie tasted bitter, especially in front of Molly’s writing teacher.

Chanel Thorton, bless her, smoothed over the awkward moment. “Molly baby, you have a Merry Christmas, and I’ll see you in two weeks.” She kissed her star student’s forehead and exited the office. Principal McCarthy walked around the counter and gave Molly a long hug. She shook Millie’s hand, holding it a moment too long. “You know it’s not going to be the same around here without this young lady.”

“Group hug?” Molly asked. It was her favorite principal’s mighty weapon against awkwardness, anger, embarrassment – any situation that needed diffusing. The three stood together, arms linked, no one wanting to be the first to let go. None wanting this to be the last hug.

After signing the withdrawal papers, Millie and Molly walked outside. The heavy doors closed behind them with a final thud. There was no going back.

The moment they cleared the entrance, Molly grabbed Millie’s hand. “Stop. Tell me what happened. What did he hit you with this time?”

“I will but come on. There’s probably cameras out here.”

Molly raced to the parked Sentra, tossed her book bag in the rear seat, and waited on her mother; thankful their nightmare was ending. “Did you call the police?”

“Hop in.”

The drive to Walmart took five minutes, the traffic on S. Vincennes mercifully light. By the time they arrived, Millie had shared last night’s events, omitting the real reason for Colton’s rage. She couldn’t tell Molly that her own mother’s lie about her whereabouts had triggered his violence.

“If I’d been there, I would have killed him.” Molly’s voice was steady, certain – too adult for twelve.

“Don’t say that. I’ve taught you better. Think.” They walked toward the store entrance. “What would have happened to you, to us, if you had hurt him?”

“You know what I mean. We should have left months ago.”

Millie squeezed her daughter’s shoulder. “You’re right. But we’re leaving now.” They paused to disinfect their hands. “And we’re never coming back.”

“Deal.”

Inside Electronics, Millie studied prepaid phones, calculating. They needed burners – untraceable, paid in cash. She selected two basic models, adding prepaid cards for minimum minutes and data. Their old phones would go into a dumpster two towns over.

“No social media,” she told Molly as they walked to Customer Service. “No location services, no downloading apps. These are for emergencies only.” She paid cash, pocketing the receipt to destroy later.

“I know, Mom. Minimal digital footprint.” Molly had been listening when Millie explained their escape plans. She clutched her book bag closer, grateful her mother couldn’t see the secret iPhone nestled inside; Alisha’s parting gift that would keep them connected.

They withdrew their savings from Bank of America – $1,846.28 that Millie had squirreled away in secret – and swung by That’s-a-Burger. By 10:15, they were merging onto I-90E, new phones activated, old ones waiting for disposal.

“New York City, here we come,” Molly screamed into the cold air rushing through her open window before cramming a giant bite of turkey burger into her mouth. Her excitement almost – almost – masked the fear in her voice. She clutched her book bag closer, feeling the weight of Alisha’s secret gift inside. At least they’d have that connection, even if everything else was being left behind.

Millie pressed the accelerator, watching the Chicago skyline shrink in her rearview mirror. Each mile put more distance between them and Colton, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that leaving would be the easy part.

Staying gone – that would be the real challenge.

Chapter 3

Over an hour passed without a word between them. Molly sat staring out her window, lost in thought, likely pondering her new school in New York City, and whether she would ever again have a friend like Alisha Maynard. The silence felt heavy, weighed with everything they were leaving behind.

A shudder ran through the steering wheel, and Millie adjusted her grip. The Sentra had developed new rattles in the past week, sounds she’d been too preoccupied to investigate. She should have taken Matt up on his offer of the Tahoe. But that would have meant owing him even more, and she was already drowning in debt to his kindness.

It was time for another thankfulness meditation, something Dr. Maharaja had taught her. The road sign said thirty-eight miles to South Bend. That would be a good place to check the Sentra’s fluid levels – it leaked oil and transmission fluid, another thing she’d meant to handle this morning but had forgotten. Another symptom of her bipolar disorder.

If it weren’t for Matt, she’d never have gotten the help she needed. He’d noticed her mood swings at work – the manic phases where she’d take on impossible workloads, followed by periods of crushing depression. Six months ago, he’d insisted she see Dr. Maharaja, scheduling the appointments for Thursday afternoons when the office was quiet. “On company time,” he’d said, knowing Colton would never allow therapy after hours. Even then, she’d had to lie about working late on case files.

Dr. Maharaja had diagnosed her with Bipolar II, explaining how the hypomanic episodes fueled her driven personality at work, while the depressive crashes left her vulnerable to Colton’s manipulation. The diagnosis explained so much – the impulsive decisions, the rapid shifts between euphoria and despair, the periods of foggy memory. The medication helped when she remembered to take it consistently. But she worried about maintaining her treatment in New York, about what might happen if she slipped into either extreme while trying to build a new life.

Breathe in thankfulness, breathe out anxieties, stress, fears, bad habits, and past mistakes. Millie renewed her focus. After two weeks of engaging with Maharaja’s technique, Matt was always the first person to cross her mind. Other than Molly herself, there wasn’t another person in the world who would have cared as much as Matt. But it hadn’t really come as a surprise since Millie knew how much he invested in his clients’ well-being.

He’s trained in psychodrama. For the past ten years he’d attended a three-week intensive course at The Trial Lawyer’s College in Dubois, Wyoming. Matt’s voice tickled her ears: “It’s a group psychotherapy method, a stellar way of communicating with other human beings. You simply crawl inside the skin of your client, a witness, friendly or hostile, any person you’re wanting to know, and feel what she’s feeling.”

And that’s what he had done when he learned about Colton’s abuse. The empathy Matt had shown had clarified her thinking, ultimately enabling her to make the most important decision in her life – to break free from the man who now routinely treated her as his punching bag. Matt had seeded her courage and inspiration to continue her struggles while preparing for the day she would make her escape.

Molly opened her book bag and removed The Wind in the Willows. Although she enjoyed Harry Potter, she always found time to reunite with friends Mole, Mr. Toad, Badger, and Ratty. The book was a classic, and Millie had meant to buy a copy for Molly, but she hadn’t, and this one belonged to Harvard Elementary School. Millie couldn’t remember if she’d told Molly to return it or any other books she’d checked out. Another memory lapse.

Breathe in thankfulness. Millie visualized a tree with several branches. At bottom was the main root, Matt. From there, a direct line to a better life in New York City. His friendship with attorney Stephen Canna of Bird & Foley had opened the door to Millie’s new job. Matt had met Stephen in Wyoming several years ago at The Trial Lawyer’s College, and they’d become sounding boards for each other’s most challenging cases. The Manhattan practice was growing and needed an intelligent and experienced paralegal.

Breathe in thankfulness. Although Millie had only talked with Stephen three times, she was convinced he was as close to a clone of Matt as she would ever find. On her own it would have been impossible to find the proverbial needle in the haystack. The last conversation was on Monday. Out of the blue Stephen had called and inquired about their housing needs. It seemed Stephen both cared and had connections. He’d found a studio apartment for $1000 per month on Manhattan’s upper east side. Small but adequate for starts, and only fifteen minutes from Bird & Foley at the Woolworth Building.

The housing’s proximity to Robert F. Wagner Middle School, just eight minutes away, was another blessing. It had a great reputation and would be Molly’s school home through eighth grade, preventing her from having to change schools after sixth grade like she would if they’d stayed in Chicago. Again, with Stephen’s help and the kind and compassionate caring of assistant principal Kelli Buck, Molly’s application was streamlined and completed in two days. Millie had expected nothing less given Molly’s perfect grades and attendance at Harvard Elementary.

“How about a pee break?” Molly said, stuffing Willows back into her bag. “You do remember promising frequent stops?”

Millie smiled and nodded, amazed at her daughter’s resilience and how easily the once insolvable escape puzzle was fitting together. Breathe in thankfulness. A good job, more than adequate housing, an outstanding school, and reasonable prospects for friends and associates. What more could they ask for? Breathe out anxieties, stress, fears, bad habits, and past mistakes. Millie glanced in her rearview mirror and emptied her lungs. Every minute, another mile farther from the man and world that had almost destroyed her and Molly’s life.

“Here we are, South Bend, Exit 72. The University of Notre Dame is only fifteen minutes from here. Would you…?”

Before Millie could finish her question, Molly interrupted. “Mom, no. I was just a kid when I dreamed of coming here. I no longer want anything to do with religion, especially Catholicism.”

Millie didn’t respond. As she pulled into the Flying J truck stop, the burning smell coming from under the hood reminded her Matt had offered his five-year-old Tahoe, but she’d refused, thinking it was too much of a gas hog.

“What’s that smell?” Molly lowered her window, her copper hair lifting in the cold breeze.

“It’s nothing, don’t worry about it. Sentra just needs a quart of oil and maybe a little transmission fluid.” Molly shook her head sideways and rolled her eyes, wishing she’d never personified the vehicle her mother had bought new in 1999, seven years before she became pregnant.

Molly opened her door and resisted any mention that she’d voted in favor of Matt’s vehicle offer. The burning smell followed them into the parking lot, a harbinger of troubles to come.

──────

“Code A,” Millie announced as Molly rushed toward the restroom. The words caught her daughter mid-stride, and Millie saw the slight straightening of Molly’s shoulders, the newfound awareness in her posture. Good. Their oft-repeated code for heightened observation was becoming instinct.

Without thinking, Millie opened the Sentra’s gas tank door and removed a debit card from her pocket. “Whoa.” The word escaped loud enough to draw attention from the man at the next pump.

The reality hit her like a physical blow. Earlier, before leaving home, she’d removed the card from her wallet and stuck it in her front right pocket. She’d meant to cut it up with scissors before leaving the house but had forgotten. Another mental slip. “You dumb ass,” she whispered. “That’s all we need, a trail of breadcrumbs scattered from Chicago to New York City, all showing on Colton’s next bank statement.”

Her hands trembled as she returned the card to her pocket. The actual plan was to use cash for all expenses along the eight-hundred-mile journey. Shortly after arriving in New York City, she would find a conveniently located bank and open a new account. A quick call or text to Matt would initiate the transfer of money he was holding from her 401K withdrawal. Another reason to be thankful, though right now she felt anything but grateful. The mistake with the debit card had triggered a familiar spiral of self-doubt.

Millie walked inside and scoured the store for the automotive section. After paying cash for two quarts of oil, two quarts of transmission fluid, and ten gallons of gas, she returned to the Sentra. She inserted the hose and raised the hood, breathing out and struggling to forget her near-mistake with the card.

Inside, Molly washed her hands and returned to the store. A rack of cards caught her attention. She was staring at the front cover of a Hallmark depicting pencil-drawn dogs of every shape, size, and color centered around a five-word congratulatory declaration: “Yah! Your new best friend!” Molly imagined receiving the card from Alisha three days after a late-night phone call announcing the adoption of a black Lab or Golden Retriever.

“Stay put while I go to the bathroom.” Millie told Molly in passing.

Inside the restroom, she washed her hands and swallowed a 500mg Depakote pill. It was half of what Dr. Maharaja had prescribed, but the full dose always caused extreme drowsiness. She’d take the other half tonight in Youngstown where Molly had begged to spend the night. The curious twelve-year-old hated riding and wanted to break up the long drive and hopefully take a long walk.

Millie locked herself in a private stall and tried to pee. She closed her eyes and realized this was the third day she’d been so euphoric, so energized. No doubt because she’d slept so little last night. She recognized the signs of an oncoming manic episode but pushed the thought away. They needed her energy, her drive. She couldn’t afford to be sluggish now.

As soon as she stood and snapped her pants, the image reappeared. It had been the same one for a week. Millie was in the clouds walking toward New York City along a square-tiled pathway, each tile three feet apart. And it was the same song, “Everybody Hurts” by R.E.M.—playing as she carefully stepped from one tile to the next.

The slamming of the stall door next to her snapped Millie back to reality. “Hang on, hang on,” she kept telling herself, ignoring the sink, and exiting the restrooms. Molly was still at the card stand but now talking with a white-haired, bearded man leaning on a cane. So much for Code A.

The next few minutes didn’t register with Millie. Somehow, she and Molly returned to the Sentra and driven away and were now passing Exit 77. Molly was stretched out in the back seat reading The Wind in the Willows. Millie gripped the steering wheel tighter, trying to focus on the road ahead rather than the mistakes already piling up behind them.

Chapter 4

After some discussion and a little negotiating, Millie and Molly decided to alter their plan of stopping every hour. Instead, they’d take a longer break in Perrysburg, the approximate midpoint between South Bend and Youngstown. The only exception would be if either of them had to use the restroom.

Two and a half hours later, with Molly sleeping in the back seat, Millie decided to bypass Perrysburg and continue on. She thought to herself: “Like, miraculously, I’d know how to resolve the grinding sound I’ve been hearing for the past hour every time I speed up to pass someone.” Although torn whether to return to Chicago and accept Matt’s Tahoe offer, it seemed best to continue and contact an auto repair shop when they arrived in Youngstown. Maybe all the Sentra needed was a transmission flush like Colton had mentioned.

The Sentra had other plans. The moment they entered the long bridge across the Maumee River, the grinding noise doubled, the entire car began shaking, and the burning smell became so bad Millie thought her first and only new car might catch fire. Their progress slowed despite the accelerator pressing to the floor. Cars and eighteen wheelers whizzed past, horns blaring. In a quarter mile, the car lurched forward one final time, just enough for Millie to steer to her right and stop within inches of the metal guard rail that separated them from the dark, murky water below.

“Molly, wake up.” Millie turned and reached over the seat, shaking her daughter’s leg. Her honey-blonde hair fell forward, hiding the fear she knew must show on her face. “We’re stuck. We need to get out of the car and watch traffic.” The latter sounded silly, but Millie knew they couldn’t risk being hit from behind. At least outside, they could walk east and away from the car enough to hopefully escape death if someone drifted too far right and rammed the Sentra.

“What’s wrong?” Molly sat sideways; her copper hair tousled from sleep. She looked behind and watched the passing traffic. “Why’d you stop here?”

“Come on, I’ll explain. Be careful, watch for cars.”

It was almost two hours before the wrecker arrived. Millie had Googled and found two auto repair shops in Perrysburg. She didn’t know why but she’d chosen Ray’s Service Center & Towing over Steve’s Family Auto. During the wait, she’d tried Matt’s cell three times but got voicemail. Between calls, she’d paced beside the guard rail, alternating between watching approaching traffic and staring at the river below, its dark surface matching her sinking mood.

Molly had remained calmer, sitting cross-legged on a concrete barrier well beyond their car, wrapped in her red Christmas sweater from Walmart, reading her book. Every few minutes she’d look up, scanning passing vehicles as though expecting to see Colton’s Ram truck bearing down on them.

“Are you Ray?” Millie asked as the short and stocky man in a greasy red hat exited the cab and approached them.

“Nope. I’m Bobby. You got car troubles?” Bobby was perceptive. Millie described the Sentra’s problems, detailing each symptom, and her in-vain efforts to patch things up with extra fluids.

“You need a transmission. That’ll cost you.”

“How much?” Molly interjected, but Millie closed her eyes and shook her head sideways. The familiar tingling sensation spread across her skin – not good. Not good at all.

“Never mind. Just give us a tow back to your shop and we can talk about it there.” The words came out steadily, but inside Millie was unraveling. Their entire escape fund was $1,846.28, plus Matt’s five hundred. A transmission would eat most or all of that. Every cent was already budgeted: first month’s rent and deposit in New York, food, subway passes, basic furnishings. They couldn’t touch the money Matt was holding from her 401K – that was for after they were settled, after they were safe.

The tingling across her skin intensified, and bright spots flickered at the edges of her vision. She’d felt this before, the precursor to one of her crashes. Not now. Please, not now. She glanced at Molly, who stood shivering in her Christmas sweater, copper hair whipping in the wind off the river. They couldn’t afford this setback, not financially, not emotionally, not with Colton possibly already on their trail. But what choice did they have?

It was a quarter past noon when Bobby turned right off Louisiana Avenue and pulled the wrecker alongside a neat and modern three-bay metal building. Millie opened the passenger door and Molly slid out beside her. The two held a hand across their noses and mouths to ward off Bobby’s BO. The wafting smell coming from Perry’s Burgers across the parking lot was welcoming and prevented both from gagging and throwing up. “Ray’s at lunch. You girls can sit inside.” Bobby pointed toward a side door with a sign that read, “Welcome.” Thankfully, he walked inside the shop, selected some tools from a giant red box, and hid himself underneath the hood of a late model Camaro.

The waiting room was small with six stiff chairs and two vending machines: one supplied by Coca Cola, the other filled with an assortment of candy bars, gum, granola bars, chips & pretzels, cookies, and crackers. With change from her pocket, Millie bought a Diet Coke for herself and a Sprite for Molly who returned to the Sentra for the bag of snacks they’d purchased at Walmart.

The tingling under her skin intensified. She should take the other half of her Depakote now, not wait until Youngstown. But the pills were in her purse, still in the car, and she didn’t want to go back out there, didn’t want to smell Bobby’s stench or face the reality of their situation. She closed her eyes and tried to breathe in thankfulness, but the clouds and floating tiles from her earlier vision were back, and this time there was no music playing.

──────

Ray and a woman, possibly his wife, returned at 1:15. To Millie and Molly’s surprise, the two were the total opposite of Bobby. Maybe mid-thirties, clean-cut. Both were dressed in casual clothes and were odorless. The woman retreated to a room marked “Office” and Ray approached and held out a hand. “I’m Ray. Sorry about your troubles. Bobby tells me it sounds like your transmission.”

The news had been devastating. A week to ten days for repairs, assuming they could find a transmission. Cost estimates ranging from $1,600 for a salvage yard part to $4,000 for a rebuilt one with warranty. Millie had walked outside with Molly to “discuss options,” but really to hide her rising panic. The tingling under her skin had spread, bringing with it a strange clarity. They couldn’t wait here. Couldn’t risk Colton searching for repair shops.

After paying Ray a hundred twenty in cash for the tow, Millie had made two decisions she prayed wouldn’t come back to haunt them. First, she’d arranged for Ray to ship Molly’s stuffed animals to their New York apartment. The risk of giving him their address seemed worth it given Maverick’s importance to Molly. Second, she’d looked up bus schedules.

Now, at 3:55 PM, their Uber driver pulled away from the Emerald Avenue bus station, taking another twenty-six dollars of their dwindling funds. All Millie and Molly had to do was wait six and a half hours before they were back on their journey to New York City.

Millie was surprised to learn the station served both Greyhound and Amtrak. The decision had been easy given their need to conserve cash. The Sentra’s death had heightened both Millie and Molly’s awareness of every dollar spent. The next available Amtrak departed at 11:49 PM and arrived at Penn Station in New York City at 6:50 PM Saturday night. Although that was six-plus hours faster than the scheduled bus ride, the trip would cost an extra $150, and that was for coach only. A private room would cost an additional $348. Two-hundred thirty-eight dollars to Greyhound for two seats was their only viable option.

The next six hours stretched before them like a desert. The waiting area was a sea of hard plastic seats in varying shades of orange and brown, most occupied by travelers who looked as tired as Millie felt. She chose a spot near a wall outlet, thinking of charging their phones, then remembered the old ones were still in her purse. They needed to be disposed of, but not here. Not where security cameras might record the action.

“Mom, please?” Molly was already pulling up an itinerary on her phone. “I’ll pay.” Her daughter’s copper hair caught the fluorescent lights as she leaned closer, enthusiastically outlining a multi-hour adventure: walk to nearby Middleground Metro Park and enjoy the half-mile walking trail, then walk two blocks to the highly rated San Marcos Mexican Restaurant on Summit Avenue, then venture south to The Original Sub for their chocolate strawberry olive oil cake with orange whipped cream, and finally, take an Uber to the Cinemark theater for the 6:45 PM showing of “Little Women.”

Millie shook her head, hating to disappoint her daughter but knowing they couldn’t risk being so visible in public. Instead, she took another Depakote, hoping to ward off the increasing sensation of electricity under her skin, and tried to sleep on the furthest bench from the station entrance. When she awoke at 8:45, Molly was reading Where the Red Fern Grows, the second book she’d failed to return to Harvard Elementary School’s library.

After a quick trip to the restroom, Molly suggested they eat at the in-house Subway. She again offered to pay. Molly was such a loving and forgiving child and did her best over the next ninety minutes to encourage Millie who seemed increasingly anxious and depressed.

The bus arrived ten minutes early and departed on time. From their seats toward the rear, Molly squeezed Millie’s hand and whispered, “Cleveland, Ohio, here we come.” Millie managed to smile and planted a soft kiss on her daughter’s forehead, trying to hide how the medication was finally pulling her down from the manic energy that had sustained her through their escape so far.

The darkness outside the bus windows matched her mood. She couldn’t shake the feeling that leaving their car at Ray’s was a mistake. But what choice did they have? The money that might have fixed the Sentra would now pay for their first month’s rent in New York. She had to believe they were making the right decisions.

She had to believe they would make it.

Chapter 5

Something was up. No lights downstairs, upstairs, anywhere. The front porch light was always on when he returned from work on Friday nights, even if Millie and Molly were gone on a jog or a walk. Colton turned off S. Princeton into his driveway. Hadn’t he promised Millie they’d go out tonight?

He parked and walked up the stairs. The front door was locked. It shouldn’t be. Both knew he didn’t like fiddling with keys. Where’s Molly? Hadn’t he called Millie at work and left a message with Catherine that he wanted Molly to go out with them tonight?

Inside, he flipped on the overhead light and walked to the kitchen for a beer. He closed the refrigerator and saw a note lying on the table. There was one sheet of paper ripped from a spiral bound notebook. Colton pulled back his chair and sat. It was Millie’s writing.

He downed half his Bud and read the note. Twice. It wasn’t a surprise Millie and Molly had fled. The surprise was that it had taken them so long to leave. The other two women he’d lived with hadn’t lasted a year.

Colton finished his beer, slung the bottle toward the sink, and grabbed another. He drawled out a deep burp and yelled, “you fucking bitch.” An equally loud laugh erupted. The only thing that bothered him was not knowing how to reach her. Without her testimony the DA had him over a barrel, a barrel shaped like an eight-by-eight jail cell.

Six months ago, Colton and Sandy, his best bud, met two gorgeous University of Chicago sophomores at Mitchell’s Tap, their favorite hangout. Two games of darts and a half-hour of dancing had led to a few drinks but unequal desires. Ellen and Gina’s excuse for leaving was they had to study. Colton’s temper flared. Hell, it was Friday night. Who studies on Friday night? He figured the girls had played them, just wanted to flirt and enjoy some free drinks. It’s our age, Sandy had offered. “At least fifteen years older.” The two young lasses had left without a mere thank you. Rejection was something neither man could manage.

After quickly dismissing the thought of more darts, Colton and Sandy had tailed Ellen and Gina outside to the parking lot and on to an older house on South Morgan Street. There, inside, the women refused to come to the door. They obviously didn’t understand the two men standing on their porch would not be so easily deterred.

An hour later, the men returned donning ski masks and wielding a crowbar. The rear door was easily breached. The women resisted at first but soon surrendered, doing what they were told, hoping they’d live to see Monday morning classes.

Before the night was over, Colton and Sandy had taken everything they came for. The sixteen hundred cash was a bonus but cost Ellen a finger. Shortly before dawn, a distant siren and a ringing land line scared them off, but not before tying the women up, dousing the place with five gallons of gasoline Colton kept in the bed of his truck, and tossing lite matches in both bedrooms. After retrieving his truck from Mitchell’s Tap, Colton had driven home and awakened a sleeping Millie. Molly was at Alisha’s for a sleepover.

At first, Millie didn’t ask a question, just wondered silently why Colton was so disheveled with two scratches on his face. “I may need you to provide an alibi.” Millie refused to tell anyone that he’d returned from Mitchell’s at 10:30 PM. She changed her mind when Colton threatened Molly.

Two weeks ago, the DA had secured an indictment against him and Sandy for burglary, robbery, rape, sodomy, false imprisonment, and arson. Colton’s defense attorney and investigator had subsequently learned that somehow Gina had managed to escape the burning house, but had hidden out for nearly a week before approaching the police. No doubt, Gina was the DA’s key witness and was saying it had to be the two men she and Ellen had partied with at Mitchell’s earlier that night. State detectives had no trouble identifying Colton Lee Atwood and J. Sanford Brown. Unfortunately for the DA, there was no physical evidence that Colton and Sandy were the perpetrators.

Colton tossed the second beer bottle in the sink and grabbed two more. He’d been in trouble before but nothing like this. At least he could be thankful he’d worn a condom when he’d screwed the tight-assed Gina. But he knew her testimony would be enough to put him and Sandy into the lion’s den of a trial, and without Millie’s alibi, the two of them could spend the rest of their lives in prison.

Colton swore he’d find Molly and Millie. If she refused to fully cooperate, he’d kidnap Molly and hold her until Millie lied that he was at home before 11:00 PM and stayed there all night. Colton knew Molly was the key to his freedom. The sweet, sexually maturing little girl was Millie’s weakness. She wouldn’t dare hesitate to protect the most important person in her world.

Chapter 6

“Turn right on Biesterfield Road. It’s about a quarter mile.” Sandy said from the front passenger seat of Colton’s crew cab Ram truck. The two had spent the past ninety minutes heading west to a house along the southern edge of the Busse Woods Forest Preserve. Their quest to disappear had led them here.

It seemed their best option. Certainly, they couldn’t stay at Colton’s on S. Princeton, or Sandy’s on S. Farrell St. These places would be the first locations Chicago Police would look at once the arrest warrants were issued. Neither man doubted that’s what would happen in court shortly after 10:00 AM on Monday. Hell, the whole purpose of the hearing was to determine whether the defendants would appear in court to face their charges. The judge, the new pro-prosecution judge, would order both men be immediately arrested and held in jail awaiting trial.

Colton turned right, and momentarily squeezed his eyes shut. Why hadn’t he seen this coming? Why wasn’t he more prepared? Why did the damn bank only allow a maximum daily ATM withdrawal of $300.00?

Sandy tried to think of the last time he’d been to Pop’s place. The best he could recall it was three or four years ago. Pop was the only father-figure he’d ever really known, since his biological father had died in his mid-twenties when Sandy was only three. James Todd Hickman was his maternal grandfather, who’d once owned two hundred acres south of the Busse Woods Preserve. Over the years he’d made a fortune selling off twenty-to-forty-acre tracts to eager developers. Now, Pop was gone, as was his only daughter, Sandy and Sarah’s mother, who’d died last February of a brain aneurysm. Any day now, his mother’s estate, which included most of Pop’s estate she had inherited, would be distributed to Sandy and his sister.

Sandy stared at Seibert Landscaping on his right and remembered the physically exhausting summer he’d worked there. Pop had said it would show him what real work was like and motivate him to do better in school. The only good thing to come out of the three-month torture was the owner’s daughter, the deeply tanned and delectably toned thirteen-year-old Rachel Duncan. “Oh my,” Sandy whispered to himself, wondering what might have been if his mother had let him live with Pop year-round.

“What if Sarah reneges?” It was the third time Colton had mentioned the agreement. Although Stella Hickman Brown had left everything in equal shares to Sandy and Sarah, the two had supposedly reached an agreement whereby Sandy would own the Busse Woods home outright, with Sarah receiving an extra $150,000 from Pop’s cash assets for her half of the real estate.

“Again, she lives in Phoenix and has no need or desire for sticks and stones in Elk Grove Village. Oh shit, turn left, right here. Beisner Road.”

“What about the contents? You said Pop had a lot of antiques, and several expensive paintings.”

“Get off of it, will you? It’s all in the agreement. That’s where the extra $50,000 comes in.” Sandy pointed ahead. “Slow down. Right on Winston.”

The idea had been Sandy’s. After he and Colton met at Mitchell’s Tap, they’d sat in his truck and brainstormed the safest place to set up what Sandy called “base-camp.” After listing a few not-so-desirable spots—including an abandoned warehouse close to Lincoln Park Zoo owned by Colton’s immediate supervisor at work—Sandy had suggested Pop’s house. The only negative being it was ninety minutes from either one of their houses. Colton had reluctantly agreed but was worried that cops or bounty hunters could discover the link in Sandy’s ancestral chain.

“Left on Ruskin Drive. About a block.” Pop’s place was the thirteenth house on the left, and backed up to the 3,500-acre nature preserve. Sandy’s mind returned to Rachel Duncan and the summer night they’d hiked to Busse Lake and gone skinny-dipping. Where had his life gone so horribly wrong? Such promise, including an all-expense college education compliments of Pop. But such disappointment? Beginning in the eleventh grade in Chicago. Drugs and stealing had led to juvenile detention and eventually to dropping out of high school. “Here it is, 622 Ruskin Drive.” The last account Sandy had of Rachel was she was married to a Dallas, Texas gynecologist. “Fitting,” he said aloud.

“Uh?” Colton pulled into the paved driveway already half-covered with snow. “What’s fitting?” He pointed the Ram toward a detached garage, then backed into the carport’s unoccupied spot beside Pop’s twenty-year-old Buick.

Sandy didn’t respond but jumped out and headed to his grandfather’s car. He hoped, at worst, all it would need was a battery charge. A thrill of confidence flooded his mind. Finally, Colton let him have a say. First, Pop’s place as base camp, then his well-maintained car as transportation to and from Chicago. As usual, the key was under the floor mat. Thankfully, it started right off.

“Somebody’s either living here or routinely coming. Otherwise, the battery would die.” Colton said, standing between the Ram and Pop’s Buick, worrying about the house’s heat, given the bitter cold weather forecast.

Sandy stared at the dash, his face red as a male cardinal. He thought of Mildred Simmons next door. “Shit.”

Chapter 7

Pop’s place was a small two-bedroom one-story clapboard-sided house built in the fifties on a one-acre wooded lot. At the rear was an attached two-car carport. Sixty feet to the northwest stood a single-car detached garage, currently locked, with an attached shed used by Mildred Simmons to protect her riding and push mowers, and an assortment of lawn-maintenance tools, including weed-eaters, blowers, edgers, and seed-spreaders. Pop’s house, as well as Mildred’s and the other ten houses on this side of Ruskin, faced south and were surrounded on the north and east by the 3,500-acre Busse Woods Natural Preserve, itself encircled by a paved biking trail that meandered parallel to the homes’ rear boundary lines.

The inside of Pop’s house didn’t look like it had changed since construction nearly three-quarters of a century ago. The floors in the utility room, kitchen, and both baths were linoleum. The other rooms—a large den, a small study, and two bedrooms—had low-pile shag carpeting, either yellow or green. The latter reminded Colton of guacamole, without the onions.

“Your Pop lived rather sparsely.” Colton had noticed several bare walls in the bedrooms and the absence of any type of desk in the study.

Sandy looked inside the refrigerator, then opened every cabinet door, top and bottom, and each of the drawers. “At least she didn’t take the pots, pans, utensils, and a pound of coffee.”

“Your sister? But she took the antiques and paintings you mentioned.” That explained the house’s empty feel.

“About two weeks ago. Sarah hired a moving company. She flew here and supervised the loading and flew back to Phoenix without even a phone call.” Sandy said, leaning against the kitchen sink.

Colton returned to the den but still within Sandy’s earshot. It was odd that an American Gothic hung on each of the den’s four walls. No doubt reproductions, since the original 1930s painting is in the Art Institute of Chicago’s collection. Apparently, Pop liked the now dead but still famous painter Grant Wood, who favored scenes of rural people and Iowa cornfields. American Gothic portrays a farmer and his daughter standing in front of an Eldon, Iowa house. The farmer is holding the handle of a three-speared pitchfork while his daughter is staring at someone or something to her left. Colton would never have known these details if it weren’t for a visit with Molly and Millie to the museum shortly after they started dating. It was something to do with a school research project. That too was odd, since at the time Molly was only in the fourth grade. “I guess Sarah didn’t like reproductions.”

Without responding, Sandy removed a notepad from a kitchen drawer along with a pencil and started writing a grocery list. “Coffee, creamer, sweetener, beer. Do you like pot pies?”

“Only if I’m starving. Let’s unload the truck, make a pot of coffee, and keep brainstorming our strategy. We’ve got lots to think about.”

They walked through the combination laundry and utility room onto the carport. Colton made two trips, bringing in two duffle bags, a metal lockbox filled with a cache of pistols, and a briefcase stuffed with bank statements and a spiral notebook Millie used to capture names and addresses of plumbers, heating & air repairmen, carpenters, electricians, and anyone else she believed might be needed in the future. Sandy made one trip with a suitcase and a smaller duffle.

“Where’s the key to the garage?” Colton asked after depositing his things inside Pop’s bedroom. Naturally, Sandy had chosen the one he occupied in the summers while growing up since Sarah rarely visited.

“Pantry. You best be glad Pop was organized and a creature of habit. Or we’d be looking for a hacksaw or bolt cutters to open the lock.” Sandy opened the narrow door beside the refrigerator and grabbed the labeled key from a small pegboard filled with an assortment of keys and screwdrivers.

Since Colton made the decision he and Sandy had to disappear, he’d wondered what to do with the Ram. He knew they couldn’t use it in Chicago. At first, he’d thought about going out of town and trading it for something else. But that seemed to swap one problem for another, given the near-certainty investigators would check the Department of Motor Vehicles database. Ultimately, he’d gone with Sandy’s suggestion they use Pop’s Buick.

Colton sat in the Ram and turned up the heat. The weather was deteriorating. Snow was thickening. The temperature was falling. He eased the truck forward as Sandy crunched through two inches of the white stuff.

The key worked flawlessly. Sandy removed the Master lock and raised the over-sized garage door. He couldn’t believe what he saw parked inside. Colton put the Ram in park and exited. “What the hell?”

The dark blue Mercedes Sprinter van looked brand new. “Damn, Pop lost his mind. He hated traveling. Was an absolute homebody.”

“These things don’t come cheap.” Colton added, walking to a locked driver’s side door. “Run grab the keys.” If Pop was so organized, the key would be on the pegboard. Yet, the key to the Buick was under the floor mat.

“Something’s wrong.” Sandy said, walking to the passenger side, checking the locked door, and peering inside the cab. “I’d bet this isn’t Pop’s. For two reasons. One, he wouldn’t dare spend this kind of money, and two, he’d never have a Branson, Missouri brochure.”

“Uh?”

“On the seat.” Sandy pointed as Colton joined him and stared at the colorful front page advertising Dolly Parton’s Dixie Stampede Dinner Attraction.

The sound of an approaching vehicle from Ruskin Avenue caught their attention. At first, given the near-blinding snow, all they could see were two headlights. But then, a 1990’s Impala appeared and parked behind Colton’s Ram.

“Shit, that’s Mildred Simmons.” Sandy said, recognizing the car Pop’s favorite neighbor had purchased new when he was ten.

Without exiting the Impala, and while leaning her red-haired head out a lowered window, the ancient woman with more wrinkles than an African bush elephant, half-screamed, “I’ve called the police. You’re not going to steal my van.”

“Well, that explains it. Just the hell we need.” Thought Colton, remaining in front of the Sprinter.

“Rusty, it’s Sandy, Pop’s grandson. We’re not stealing anything.”

It took three attempts to convince her, including the inspection of Sandy’s driver’s license, and the correct name for the Pekingese Mildred owned fifteen years ago. After some deliberation Sandy said, “Scarlett.” No doubt, she too was a redhead.

“Oh my goodness.” Mildred said as she made a smooth exit from the Impala. “I’m so sorry about Pop, and for not making the funeral.” Pop’s death had been sudden, six months ago by heart attack. Sandy reminisced over bygone days with him, silently regretting his near failure to visit his grandfather during the last ten years of his life.

Fortunately, shortly after two Elk Grove police officers arrived, they departed with repeated assurances from Mildred she’d made a mistake in calling 911. The deciding assurance was her detailed narrative of the van purchase a year ago and Pop’s insistence she park it inside his detached garage.

After Mildred returned home, Sandy lowered the garage’s overhead door while Colton backed the RAM once again inside the carport.

Shivering, both men returned to the kitchen for more coffee. “Rusty is going to be a problem.” Sandy said as they stood backed to a five-grate gas heater just inside the den.

Chapter 8

When the bus driver shut down the engine, Millie tapped Molly on the hand. “Wake up. Breakfast time.” The kid could sleep through a tornado.

Molly, startled, inclined her seat, removed her ear buds, and shook her curly copper hair out of her eyes. “I’m starving,” she said, looking at her mother.

“Sally Ann’s your best option.” The anorexic-looking girl across the aisle was standing and politely waiting for Molly and Millie.

“Say again,” Millie said, smiling at the young girl who looked like she hadn’t eaten in years. Despite her rail-thin figure, there was something magnetic about her—an intensity in her green eyes, an elegance in her movements. Danger radar pinged at the back of Millie’s mind. Anyone who showed interest in them could be a threat.

Molly glanced at her mom, carefully slid the secret iPhone from Alisha out from under her jacket where she’d been charging it and stuffed it into her book bag. “It’s a restaurant.” Molly whispered to her mother.

The girl motioned for Millie and Molly to go first. “The reviews advise staying away from The Pitts. That’s the fast-food joint inside the bus station.”

The three exited the bus and walked inside the rear double-doors of the terminal. The lobby was large, much bigger than Toledo’s, and, so far, much cleaner. The gray and black floors looked like they’d just been waxed. “How far away is Sally’s?” Millie asked, not that hungry but knew Molly was, as always.

“It’s just two blocks north on 11th street. I’m going. Join me if you like. My treat. By the way, I’m Tracey.” This confused Millie. Anorexics are opposed to eating. And why would this skinny, yet attractive girl who neither she nor Molly knew, offer to buy their breakfast?

“I’m Molly. This is Millie, my mom.” Molly grabbed her mother’s hand and squeezed, knowing she needed to take charge as Millie battled the fog of depression that had descended after her manic energy crashed. “Sounds good to me.” Molly said, shifting her book bag to her other shoulder.

Tracey led the way across the lobby, out the main entrance, and onto 11th street. Nothing much was said during their five-minute walk. Millie was too busy scanning the passing faces, looking for anyone who might be following them or showing undue interest. Her paranoia felt justified; Colton had friends everywhere.

The restaurant was small and crowded. Six booths and an eight-stool counter. Not an available seat anywhere. For a minute, the three stood inside the front door, staring at the menu on the back wall taped to the metal hood above the griddle, and pondering whether to leave or wait. “Take ours.” An older man said from two booths away. “Come on Ethel, time to let these nice folks have our table.” The woman, probably his wife, looked like Millie felt: alone, sad, helpless. “You’re lucky. The food’s great. Come here every day.” It took another minute or two for the man to coax his wife from her seat, slip on a wide red scarf, and lead her outside. Millie couldn’t help but think how lucky the two seniors were, to have each other, hopefully after a long, satisfying life together.

“Where are you headed?” Molly broke the silence after the waitress filled their water glasses and took their orders. Millie removed the burner phone from her purse and laboriously began typing on the numeric keypad, pressing each button multiple times to form letters. She’d promised Matt a daily update, but the basic phone made texting tedious. She’d have to keep it brief: “Day 2. On the bus to NYC. All OK. Will call when safe.”

“The Big Apple.” Tracey said, pouring half a Splenda into her water glass, then two shakes of salt. “New York City,” she added to clarify, but you probably know that already.” She stirred and used a spoon to test her concoction.

Millie’s hand froze above her phone. New York. Their destination. Coincidence? She studied Tracey more carefully now, looking for any sign this was a setup.

“What do you do there?” Molly was uninhibited.

“I teach meditation, also known as mindfulness.” Oh my, Millie thought about the Moonies along Canal Street she’d see every Thursday afternoon during her walk to her psychiatrist.

“Sounds like woo-woo to me.” Molly had no filter. Millie eyed her daughter, shaking her head sideways.

Carrie Borders was a Moonie, and she was a paralegal at Winston and Strawn. She occupied a cubicle in Millie’s quadrant, and like her, reported to law partner Kimbal Deitrich.

Tracey chewed slowly as though garnering time to frame her response. “I teach Zen. It’s nothing to do with the metaphysical. Simply put, it’s an exploration into the nature of the mind, a tool to open completely to our lives.”

Millie wasn’t especially spiritual but for the last year had attended a small church in their neighborhood. The unspoken reason was to create more time on weekends away from Colton. She ate a bite of her bran muffin and recalled Fridays at Winston and Strawn.

Once per week, if their schedule allowed, the paralegal staff was allowed to dress casual. Carrie would always wear a T-shirt that read, “I’m a Moonie and I love it”. Millie had tried to avoid Carrie as much as possible but sometimes she’d be stuck with her in a conference room indexing depositions. There, Millie learned a near-complete history of the Unification Church. Its founder, Sun Myung Moon, was allegedly a Messiah, second only to Jesus, wholly sinless. Moon’s purpose, as was all his followers, was to replace Christianity with his mission which was, in essence, to unite all humans into one family under God bringing peace throughout the earth. Woo-woo for sure, Millie had always concluded.

Molly ordered a refill of orange juice and continued peppering Tracey. “Where have you been? Did your car break down?”

Tracey pushed back her oatmeal bowl and forked a slice of pineapple. “I love your inquisitive daughter.” Her eyes met Millie’s and lingered a long while. “Two or three times per year I go on retreat. I always travel by Greyhound. For me, it keeps me rooted in life, real people, and real dependency. But mainly, I’m selfish. Riding the bus creates a lot of time to meditate without having to worry about driving.”

Molly interrupted Tracey. “Where was your retreat? This time?”

The waitress delivered their ticket and waited. Tracey removed a card from her pants pocket and handed it to the voluptuous redhead. “Ottawa, Illinois, One River Zen. The center is a beautiful Queen Anne Victorian built in 1890, situated on the scenic banks of the Illinois River.”

Something about Tracey’s practiced responses made Millie uneasy. The precision of her answers. The ready business card. The careful word choice. Was this a coincidence or something more calculated?

“How long are retreats?”

“They vary. At One River they’re either a weekend or a week. Mine was the latter.” Tracey ate two bites of cantaloupe and swallowed some water.

“Does meditation cause you to be so skinny?” Again, absolutely no filter.

“Molly, that’s too personal, borderline offensive.” Millie hoped her daughter would grow out of this.

“Oh, I love it.” Tracey replied. “So natural. She’s got a bright future.”

Millie activated her cell. “We best be going. It’s almost 5:45. We don’t want to miss our ride.”

The food had been better than great. Even Millie bragged on the eggs, although she’d only taken a bite from Molly’s plate, who had wolfed down a southwestern omelet and a side order of bacon. Tracey’s appetite was equally as strong as Molly’s although she chose oatmeal, fruit, and unbuttered toast. Millie was surprised she ate anything at all.

As they walked back to the bus station, Millie hung back slightly, watching Tracey interact with Molly. The woman seemed genuinely interested in her daughter, asking about her favorite books and what she liked to write. But Millie’s protective instincts were on high alert. In their situation, trust was a luxury they couldn’t afford.

And Tracey was headed to New York. Just like them.

Chapter 9

Colton awakened to the sound of an unfamiliar furnace kicking on. The muted rumble in Pop’s ancient house was nothing like the high-pitched whine of the unit back at the duplex on S. Princeton. It took him a moment to remember where he was, and why.

His head pounded. Too much beer. Last night, after their run-in with Mildred and settling into Pop’s house, he’d downed most of a six-pack while Sandy snored in the next room. The realization that he was now effectively a fugitive with a court date looming had driven him to drink more than planned.

A sharp, stabbing pain exploded in his right temple as he sat up. Coffee. He needed coffee.

The old-fashioned percolator was already bubbling when he reached the kitchen. Sandy sat at the table in thermal underwear and a flannel shirt, pencil in hand, making what looked like a grocery list.

“Sleeping Beauty awakens,” Sandy muttered without looking up. “Coffee’s almost ready.”

Colton grunted in response, lowering himself carefully into a wooden chair. The hangover was brutal, but he couldn’t afford to be sidelined. Not now. Not with Millie and the little bitch somewhere out there, his future in their hands.

On his second cup, Colton finally started to focus. He knew a plan was imperative if he ever wanted to find Millie. He couldn’t just hide out at Pop’s, wait for Monday’s hearing, and hope for the best. There was no doubt, he had to act quickly and decisively, otherwise his life was over, and he’d spend his remaining days behind bars.

“Got a pen?” Colton asked. Sandy slid an old ballpoint across the table. Colton flipped over Sandy’s grocery list and began writing.

The first name he wrote was Matt Quinn. He was Millie’s number one cheerleader. It hadn’t taken a genius to figure this out. Since Colton moved in two years ago, Millie had received at least four raises and two promotions, all while her work hours had stayed the same. For the last six months, she’d worked less.

Colton grinned as he thought about his foresight and wisdom in hiring private eye Butch King to tail Millie after work each day. Although it had taken Butch a few weeks to spot the Thursday pattern, he eventually learned Millie exited Grant Thornton Tower at 2:30 every Thursday and walked four blocks to the Clarity Clinic. With some clever subterfuge, Butch had discovered Kiran Maharaja was Millie’s psychiatrist.

“What are you doing?” Sandy asked, leaning over to see the page.

“Making a list of people who might know where she went.” Colton tapped the pen against Matt’s name. “This guy, her boss – he knows something. He’s been sniffing around her for years.”

Sandy nodded. “Who else?”

Kiran Maharaja was the next name Colton added to his list. “Her shrink. She’s been seeing this quack every Thursday for months. It seemed like the kind of thing a mentally ill person might share with her psychiatrist, you know? ‘I’m planning to run away from my boyfriend.'”

Colton drew a circle in the lower half of the page. “Who else is inside Millie’s circle?” He paused, cocking his head as though an invisible hand was prodding him in a new direction. “Molly also has a circle, and the two don’t perfectly overlap.”

Sandy sipped his coffee, watching Colton’s process with obvious unease. The concern in his eyes suggested he was wondering if bringing Colton to Pop’s place had been a mistake.

Colton again picked up the pen and started writing, this time at the bottom of the page. Work, church, school, friends. He paused and thought. “Millie’s best friend at work, other than Matt, is Catherine.” He added her name to the list.

“What about the kid?” Sandy asked.

“Molly? That’s easy, she has only one real friend. Alisha, Alisha Maynard. Lives in the Auburn Gresham area.” Colton remembered driving Molly there for a sleepover about a year ago. He could see the street and their house in his mind’s eye. He added Alisha’s name to the list.

Colton had just written Harvard Elementary School and was trying to remember Molly’s favorite teacher’s name when he heard his cell phone vibrating on the counter where he’d left it charging. Both men froze. “Millie,” Colton said out loud, knowing there was no way in hell she was calling, but hoping all the same.

Chapter 10

Colton stood, walked into the den and stared at his phone’s screen. It was his attorney, Cliff Blackwell. “What now?” He pressed Accept and suppressed his dissatisfaction with the attorney who’d come highly recommended. “You’re up early for a Saturday.”

“It’s my golf day and I’m about at the first hole so I’ll be quick.” Colton visualized Cliff driving his cart and could hear someone beside him talking, probably also on a cell phone. “Hey, tried calling you several times last night.”

“Sorry. I was, well, out of range. Plus, my phone died.” He lowered his voice and moved away from the kitchen where Sandy was refilling his coffee cup.

“Bad news about Monday’s hearing. Judge Rhodes got assigned to your case.”

Colton swore under his breath. This was exactly what they’d feared when they heard about the bond review hearing and decided to hide at Pop’s place. “Rhodes? The hanging judge? What happened to the possibility of getting Alvarez?”

“Court clerk says Rhodes specifically requested your case. Word is, the DA’s been in his ear.”

“Shit man. So, we’re looking at revocation?” Sweat popped out on Colton’s forehead. They’d been lucky to make bail at all, given the charges. His family home as collateral and Sandy’s mother’s life insurance payout had barely covered the $250,000 bond. Judge Stewart had been surprisingly lenient, citing their ties to the community and lack of physical evidence. But Stewart is gone now.

“It’s worse than that. Rhodes has been looking at the case file. He’s questioning why Stewart set bail at all for charges this serious. His clerk told my paralegal he’s ‘deeply concerned about public safety.'”

Colton walked out onto the back porch, ignoring the bitter cold. The snow-covered nature preserve stretched out before him, but he saw none of its beauty. “Can’t you do something? File some kind of motion? Appeal to someone higher up?” Four months ago, the DA had pulled this same stunt, filed a motion to revoke bail, and Judge Stewart refused to even set a hearing.

“Listen, I got to go. Just be warned, if you show up Monday, I’m ninety percent certain you’re leaving in handcuffs. The only shot we have is if something dramatic changes before then. Have a good weekend.” The call ended.

“Have a good weekend, my ass. That’s fucking easy for him to say.” Colton stormed back inside, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the American Gothic reproductions. Sandy looked up from his coffee, eyebrows raised in question.

“Rhodes. We drew fucking Rhodes for Monday.”

Sandy’s face drained of color. “My guy just texted. Same news.” He held up his phone. “Said it’s a ‘foregone conclusion’ they’ll revoke bail.”

“This confirms it. Coming here was the right move,” Colton said. “But it’s not enough. We need to find Millie fast.”

Sandy slumped in his chair. “Maybe we should just run. Really run. Not this hiding-at-Pop’s-place shit.”

“With what money? Your inheritance isn’t settled. We’ve got maybe two thousand in cash between us. We wouldn’t make it to the border.”

“So, what then? Turn ourselves in on Monday and hope for the best?”

Colton returned to the kitchen table and tapped the list he’d been working on. “No. We work these leads. Fast. We find Millie before Monday.”

“And if we find her? Then what? She left you, man. She’s not going to suddenly agree to be your alibi.”

A cruel smile spread across Colton’s face. “That’s where you’re wrong. Millie will do anything for Molly. Anything. If we have Molly, we have Millie.”

The implication hung in the air between them. Sandy shifted uncomfortably. “Jesus, Colton. We’re already looking at serious time. Kidnapping a kid—”

“It’s not kidnapping if it’s my girlfriend’s daughter who’s been living with me for two years. It’s a… family dispute. A custody disagreement.”

“I don’t know, man… We barely got bail the first time around. My mother’s life insurance and your family house on the line. Another charge and we’re done.”

“You want to go to prison for twenty-five years? Shit, we’ll probably get life. Because that’s what we’re facing if Gina testifies, and we don’t have an alibi.”

Sandy slumped in his chair, defeated. “So, what’s the plan?”

Colton picked up his list. “We start with her friends. Catherine at work. She might know something.”

“How do we find Catherine on a Saturday?”

“Social media. Phone records. I’ve got access to our cell account online. If Millie called her recently, we’ll know.”

“And how do we get to Chicago and back without being seen? Your truck is pretty recognizable.”

Colton looked out the window at Pop’s old Buick in the carport. “We use that. Nobody’s looking for it. And we only go into the city when we need to. First, we work the phones. Do some digging online.”

“What about that Quinn guy? Her boss? You said he’s sweet on her.”

“Matt Quinn is on the list. But he’ll be harder to crack. We save him for last, when we’re desperate.”

“We’re already desperate,” Sandy muttered.

Colton’s phone vibrated again – a text message this time. He looked at the screen and his face darkened. “It’s Catherine. Responding to my message from last night.”

Sandy looked up, surprised. “You contacted her already?”

“Of course. While you were asleep. I asked if she knew where Millie was.”

“And?”

Colton’s expression hardened as he read the message. “She claims she doesn’t know anything. Says Millie didn’t tell her where she was going.”

“You believe her?”

“No. She knows something.” Colton began typing a response. “And she’s going to tell us. One way or another.”

The Boaz Student–first ten chapters

Chapter 1: The Foundation Cracks

The rock samples sat accusingly on Boaz High School senior Bret Johnson’s desk, their crystalline structures holding secrets that threatened everything he believed. His Bible remained buried in his backpack today—a first in his seventeen years of life. Usually, it sat prominently on the corner of his desk in AP Biology, a silent declaration of faith. Today, its absence weighed on him more than its presence ever had.

Bret was tall for his age, his lanky frame still clinging to the awkwardness of adolescence. His dark, wavy hair flopped stubbornly over sharp green eyes that seemed to question everything, even the person staring back at him in the mirror. He ran a hand through his curls, the motion more habit than comfort, as the absence of his Bible gnawed at him like an open wound.

“These igneous rocks contain radioactive isotopes,” Dr. Phillips announced, her crisp voice cutting through the morning stillness. “Using the decay rates and ratios I’ll show you, you’ll calculate their ages.”

Bret exchanged knowing looks with Jenna, a fellow youth group member, and his girlfriend since ninth grade. He’d handled evolution units before, always armed with scripture and his youth leader training. Just last week, he had led a Bible study titled ‘Standing Firm Against Secular Science.’ The memory should have steadied him, but instead, it felt distant, like someone else’s life.

Dr. Phillips wrote a series of equations on the board, the chalk tapping out a rhythm that matched Bret’s quickening pulse. “Notice the potassium-argon ratios in sample A,” she said, adding columns of numbers. “Based on the decay rate of potassium-40, what age would you calculate?”

Bret’s pencil moved automatically across his paper, the math coming easily. Physics had always been his secret passion, the elegant predictability of equations a guilty pleasure he’d never admitted to his youth group. But as the final number emerged on his page, his hand froze: 2.7 million years.

A sharp inhale escaped before he could stop it. A few students glanced his way. Jenna frowned. “Everything okay?” she whispered.

He checked his work frantically, his collar growing tight. The numbers didn’t lie. Each step followed logically from the last, a chain of evidence he couldn’t dismiss.

“Cross-check your results,” Dr. Phillips continued, “using the uranium-lead decay rate in sample B.”

Again, Bret ran the calculations, his hand trembling slightly. 2.8 million years. The pencil slipped from his fingers, clattering against the desk with a sharp snap. Around him, other students compared answers casually, unburdened by the weight of what these numbers meant.

Dr. Phillips turned, her gaze finding Bret. “Something wrong, Mr. Johnson?”

Bret’s mouth felt dry. He willed himself to speak—to recite one of the prepared rebuttals from youth group debates—but nothing came. The truth was still scrawled on his paper, undeniable.

Jenna leaned over, her silver cross necklace catching the fluorescent light. “What did you get?” she whispered.

Bret covered his calculations with his arm. “Still working on it,” he lied, the words ashen in his mouth. His stomach churned. In six hours, he was supposed to lead the youth group, to stand before sixty teenagers and teach the absolute truth. But now, these numbers—his numbers, not some textbook’s—burned a hole in his notebook.

The bell rang, making him flinch. As students packed up, he reached for his water bottle—only to knock it over. Water spilled across his calculations, smearing the ink. His breath caught. Maybe it was a sign. Or maybe just gravity. Either way, he shoved the notebook into his bag, heart pounding.

He rose to leave, but before he reached the door, Dr. Phillips called out, “Bret, a moment, please.”

A wave of unease rolled through him. He turned; his face carefully blank.

“You seemed… troubled by today’s lesson,” she said, folding her arms. “You’re one of my best students, Bret. If something isn’t adding up for you, we can talk.”

Jenna lingered by the door, clearly waiting for him. Bret forced a smile. “I’m fine. Just thinking about the equations.”

Dr. Phillips studied him for a beat, then nodded. “Alright. But my office is open if you ever want to discuss anything.”

He nodded quickly and left, stepping into the crowded hallway. Jenna fell into step beside him. “You sure you’re okay? You were acting weird.”

“Yeah,” he said, tightening his grip on his backpack strap. “Just thinking.”

Thinking. A lie as much as the numbers had been the truth.

──────

The Wednesday night youth service, Fusion, was scheduled to start in an hour, but Bret unlocked the church’s side door early, needing time to steady himself. His lab notebook pressed against the small of his back, tucked into his waistband like contraband. The familiar scent of old hymnals and lemon-scented cleaner that had once brought comfort now felt like walking into an interrogation room.

He checked his phone. Two unread messages from Jenna. “Praying for you tonight” and “See you soon.” He hesitated before tucking it away.

He flicked on the lights in the community room, their hum filling the silence. He wasn’t ready to face anyone yet. Not Pastor Josh. Not Jenna. And especially not Tommy.

The creak of the back hallway door made him freeze.

“Thought I’d find you here early.” Pastor Josh’s voice was calm, but his tone carried an unspoken edge. He stepped inside, holding a folder. “Got a minute? Some parents have concerns about your recent lessons.”

Bret’s stomach knotted. “Concerns?”

Pastor Josh gave a slow nod and walked closer, flipping open the folder. “They feel you’ve been…” He paused, pretending to search for the right phrase. “Less definitive lately. Especially about creation versus evolution.”

He held out a sheet of paper. “Tommy’s mother says he’s been asking uncomfortable questions. Questions he didn’t used to ask. She says she thinks those questions are coming from you.”

Bret’s fingers clenched into fists before he forced himself to relax. “I encourage questions,” he said carefully. “It strengthens faith.”

“Questions with answers strengthen faith,” Pastor Josh countered. “Questions without answers breed doubt. You do understand the difference, don’t you?” He closed the folder, watching Bret closely. “Tonight’s topic is ‘Biblical Authority.’ Stick to the outline. No deviations.”

Bret swallowed; his mouth suddenly dry. “Of course.”

Pastor Josh’s expression softened just slightly, but his next words were firm. “Good. We’re counting on you, Bret.”

An hour later, the youth room was full. Sixty teenagers leaned forward, trusting him to be the leader they’d always known. Their faces blurred together as he stood at the front, his Star Wars water bottle beside his open Bible. His grandmother’s cross pendant felt like an iron weight on his chest. His head buzzed with the conversation with Pastor Josh, the equations from class, Tommy’s voice echoing in his mind.

He forced a breath. “Tonight, we’re going to talk about faith.”

His voice sounded thin. Weak.

“But how do we know what God wants us to do?” A sophomore’s voice pulled him back. Bret searched for the girl’s name. Carol.

His fingers gripped the podium. “Through prayer. Through His Word. Through the peace He gives us when we’re following His will.”

The words left his mouth, but they felt like they belonged to someone else.

A new voice rose from the back. Tommy.

“But what if science shows something different than the Bible? Like in biology class today?”

A ripple of unease moved through the room. Jenna shifted in her chair. Pastor Josh, standing near the door, didn’t move.

Bret’s pulse pounded in his ears. Every eye was on him. He had seconds to respond.

He forced a small chuckle, hoping to deflect. “Well, the Bible is clear on—”

“Is it?” Tommy pushed, leaning forward. “Because the numbers don’t lie. We did the math. The rock was millions of years old.”

“Tommy—”

“You always said science and the Bible agree. But they don’t. Not really.” Tommy’s voice wasn’t angry. It wasn’t even defiant. It was searching. And that made it worse.

A long silence stretched between them. Pastor Josh cleared his throat, shifting his weight just enough to remind Bret of the warning he’d given earlier.

“That’s enough for tonight,” Bret said, his voice sharper than intended. Tommy flinched. Bret ignored the guilt twisting inside him. “Let’s pray.”

Heads bowed. But as Bret closed his eyes, his own prayer felt like an echo—faint, distant, and far away from whatever truth he thought he once knew.

When he finally lifted his head, the weight in his chest had only grown heavier.

As the students filed out, Pastor Josh approached, his expression unreadable. “We’ll talk later.”

Bret nodded, but inside, he knew—he was running out of ways to hide.

Jenna caught up to him as he grabbed his backpack. “That was… different.” She hesitated. “Are you okay?”

He forced a grin. “Of course. Just a lot on my mind.”

Jenna didn’t look convinced. “You seemed tense up there. Like you were struggling.”

“I just want to make sure I get things right,” he said, adjusting his backpack strap. “We’re talking about big stuff.”

She studied him, then nodded. “I get it. Let’s talk later?”

“Yeah,” he said, knowing he’d find a way to dodge the conversation. “Later.”

Outside, the air was thick with humidity. Bret exhaled and glanced toward the church parking lot. Tommy lingered near the steps, watching him.

Bret hesitated, then turned away, heading to his car.

The night wasn’t over. Not for Tommy. Not for him. Not for the war inside his head.

──────

2:17 AM glowed red on Bret’s alarm clock, casting faint shadows across his ceiling. Sleep had become a foreign concept. The numbers from biology class—2.7 million years, 2.8 million years—kept circling his thoughts, colliding with Pastor Josh’s warning, Tommy’s question, and Jenna’s lingering concern. He turned onto his side, pressing his face into the pillow, but the thoughts didn’t let go.

His phone buzzed against the nightstand. The glow of the screen cast an eerie light over his stacked Bibles—the study Bible, his grandmother’s King James, and the pocket-sized one he always carried to youth group. He ignored them all, reaching instead for the phone.

Tommy: Still awake? Tommy: I found something. We should talk.

Bret exhaled sharply. He hovered over the reply box, his fingers flexing.

Don’t answer. Just go to sleep.

But sleep wasn’t happening, and Tommy’s name flickered on the screen, demanding attention.

Connie: Stop asking questions that hurt people’s faith.

Bret’s stomach clenched. The message was from the youth group chat. He scrolled up, his pulse quickening. Tommy had already shared the article about radiometric dating—the one he’d texted privately. A knot formed in Bret’s chest.

Tommy: It’s science, Connie. We should be able to talk about it.

Connie: Not when it makes people stumble. Doubt is the enemy of faith.

A new message appeared.

Pastor Josh: Let’s discuss this at church tomorrow, Tommy. We need to be careful what kind of conversations we encourage.

Bret swallowed hard. That was directed at him, even if Josh hadn’t said his name. He wasn’t even in the chat, and somehow, this was already getting back to leadership.

His thumb hovered over Tommy’s text. If he answered now, he was choosing a side. If he ignored it, he was hiding.

His foot tapped restlessly against the bed frame. He needed air. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, grabbed his hoodie, and slipped out the door. The house was silent except for the soft hum of the refrigerator downstairs. His mother was usually a light sleeper, but tonight, the house felt undisturbed.

Or so he thought.

As he reached the kitchen, he froze. His mother stood by the sink, prayer journal open, pen in hand. She hadn’t noticed him yet.

He considered turning back, but the old wood floors betrayed him with a quiet creak.

She turned. “Couldn’t sleep?” Her voice was soft, understanding. For a moment, she was just his mom, not the woman who would be devastated by what he was thinking.

Bret ran a hand over the back of his neck. “Yeah. Just… a lot on my mind.”

She nodded as if she understood. “I was just finishing my prayers. You want to join me?” She gestured to the Bible beside her. “Maybe that would help.”

Bret’s throat tightened. It should help. It always had before. But the moment he thought about opening a Bible, he remembered the millions of years in his notebook, the contradictions he’d started noticing, the hollow feeling in his prayers.

His mother took his silence as hesitation, offering him a gentle smile. “Come on. Just a few minutes.”

A month ago, he would have said yes without thinking. A week ago, he would have done it out of obligation. But now… now it felt like stepping onto a stage to play a role he didn’t believe in anymore.

“Maybe tomorrow, Mom. I should try to get some sleep.”

Her eyes softened with something close to concern, but she didn’t push. “Alright. Get some rest, sweetheart. And just… remember that God’s always listening. Even when we don’t know what to say.”

Bret forced a small smile. “Yeah. Good night.”

He turned before she could see the doubt in his face. She had no idea that, for the first time in his life, he wasn’t sure anyone was listening at all.

Back in his room, he shut the door and leaned against it, his heart pounding. He couldn’t keep doing this. Couldn’t keep pretending.

His phone buzzed again. Tommy.

Tommy: Seriously, are you awake?

Bret inhaled sharply, staring at the screen. He should tell Tommy to stop. He should tell Tommy to drop this before they both got into trouble. But instead, he did something else.

He tapped out a message and hit send.

Bret: I’m awake.

The message marked a shift, a silent acknowledgment that he wasn’t just doubting anymore. He was engaging. He was stepping into the questions.

Dawn would come too soon, bringing the weight of expectations, the need to play a role he no longer believed in. But for now, in the darkness of his room, he could admit the truth he’d been avoiding:

The pain wasn’t in the questions themselves. It was in pretending they didn’t exist.

Chapter 2: Growing Isolation

The kitchen smelled of fresh coffee and toasted bread as Bret descended the stairs, his body heavy from another restless night. Each step on the old wooden staircase creaked, a small betrayal of his presence. He hesitated before entering, listening to the quiet hum of morning routine.

His mother sat at the counter, her Bible open beside a steaming mug, the pages of her floral prayer journal catching the soft morning light. The scratch of her pen filled the silence as she wrote down today’s petitions. He knew, without looking, that his name was somewhere on the list.

Bret lingered in the doorway, watching. She looked so certain. So peaceful. For years, this had been his anchor. The smell of coffee, the rhythmic scribble of her prayers, the way she always smiled at him when she looked up. It used to be comforting. Now, it was like watching someone speak a language he was forgetting.

“Morning, honey.” She glanced up, her smile warm, familiar. “Your dad just left for work, but I saved you some coffee.”

Bret stepped forward, pouring himself a cup he knew he wouldn’t drink. The steam curled upward, dissipating into the quiet air. “Thanks.”

He sat at the table, staring at the plate of scrambled eggs she had set out for him. He wasn’t hungry. But if he left them untouched, she’d notice.

His mother joined him, prayer journal in hand. “I added your name again this morning,” she said, her voice light but heavy with meaning. “About the biology test yesterday. God will guide you through it, just like He always has.”

Bret tightened his grip on his mug. If only she knew the test wasn’t the problem—it was the answers.

“Thanks, Mom.”

She reached over, patting his hand. “And I wrote down your college decisions too.” Her gaze flicked to the stack of application fees by her journal—Liberty, Moody, Oral Roberts. Each check written and ready to mail. “We just have to trust Him to show you the right path.”

Bret’s pulse ticked faster. The right path.

His mother was watching him now, expectant. He should nod. He should agree. He should make this easy.

Instead, his eyes flicked toward the far end of the counter, where his own application lay beneath the others. MIT’s aerospace program. The only one he hadn’t told her about yet.

“Yeah.” The word felt like sand in his mouth. “Trust Him.”

Her smile brightened, missing the tremor in his voice. “That’s my boy.” She stood, humming as she rinsed her mug. “Don’t forget your devotional before school. It’s so important to start the day with Him.”

There it was. The test.

“Right,” Bret said, pushing back his chair. The scrape against the tile was too loud in the quiet kitchen. “I’ll do that now.”

He turned toward the stairs, his mother’s approval trailing behind him like a shadow. Halfway up, he paused, listening to the quiet return of her pen against paper.

He should read it. He should pray.

But upstairs, when he closed his bedroom door and sat on his bed, he didn’t reach for his Bible. He stared at it instead, the leather cover worn from years of use. It had always been his first instinct. His first action every morning.

Yesterday’s calculations burned in his mind: 2.7 million years. 2.8 million years.

His eyes drifted to the MIT brochure peeking out from under the Christian college applications. He should be reading his devotional. He should be praying.

Instead, he reached for his phone. One unread message.

Tommy: You up? We need to talk.

Bret hesitated only a moment before typing a reply.

Bret: Yeah. I’m up.

He set the Bible back on his nightstand, untouched. Then he grabbed the MIT brochure and started reading. For the first time in years, skipping devotions didn’t feel like failure. It felt like a choice.

──────

The afternoon sun cast long shadows across First Baptist Church of Christ’s Gethsemane Garden as Bret approached the wooden bench where Jenna waited. Her silver cross necklace—his gift from last Christmas—caught the light as she fidgeted with the chain. She looked up at his footsteps, her expression a mix of fear and resolve.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” she said softly.

“No, I haven’t.” The lie felt heavy, but he couldn’t meet her eyes.

“Don’t.” Her voice cracked slightly. “I know you better than that.” She gestured to the bench. He sat, the old wood creaking beneath them.

For a moment, neither spoke. Wind rustled the leaves overhead. Finally, Jenna broke the silence. “Do you remember freshman orientation? Standing by the gym doors, both of us too nervous to talk to anyone?”

“You were wearing that ‘Jesus Rocks’ t-shirt,” he said, managing a weak smile.

“And you had your Bible tucked under your arm like a shield.” She laughed, but it faded quickly. “You were so sure then—of yourself, of God. I thought, ‘This guy is exactly what I need.'”

The words struck harder than she probably intended. Bret studied his hands, twisting the youth leader bracelet on his wrist. “Things were simpler then.”

“Yeah.” Her whisper barely carried. “Back then, we both knew exactly who we were.” She turned to face him fully. “But now? I don’t know anymore, Bret. You’re different.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. You’re distant. Distracted. You skip morning prayer group. You avoid me.” Her voice caught. “And I see it in your eyes. You’re pulling away from God… and from me.”

Pain laced her words. Bret opened his mouth but found no response. How could he explain what he couldn’t even understand?

Jenna’s fingers traced her cross pendant. “Remember what you said when you gave me this? That it was a symbol of God being at the center of our relationship.”

“I meant it,” he whispered.

“Did you?” She tilted her head, eyes glistening. “Because I don’t feel Him there anymore. And I don’t think you do either.”

The accusation hung between them, sharp and true. Bret stared at the ground, chest tight. “I’m just… dealing with some things.”

“But you’re supposed to deal with them with me,” she insisted. “We’re supposed to be a team. If you’re struggling, you come to me, not shut me out.” She paused, voice softening. “I love you. But I can’t do this alone.”

“I’m not trying to shut you out,” he said, finally meeting her gaze. “I just… I don’t know how to talk about it.”

“Then try,” she pleaded. “Please, Bret. Whatever it is, let me in.”

He hesitated, the truth burning his throat: How could he tell her that the foundation of their relationship—their shared faith—was crumbling beneath him?

Jenna stood, brushing off her skirt. “I pray for you every day,” she said, voice steady despite her tears. “And I’ll keep praying. But if you don’t want to fight for this—for us—I can’t do it alone.”

“Jenna,” he rose, but she shook her head.

“I love you,” she said again, firmly. “But I can’t be in a relationship where God isn’t at the center. And right now… I don’t think He is for you.”

She walked away, disappearing down the garden path. Bret stood frozen, the words he couldn’t say choking him. The bench felt cold and empty, much like the space growing inside him where certainty used to live.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. A text from Alex: “Shooting hoops at the court. Could use a second player.”

Bret stared at the message, grateful for its simple offer of escape. He couldn’t stay here, couldn’t keep drowning in the silence Jenna had left. Maybe mindless basketball would help clear his head. He typed a quick “omw” and headed for the church court, leaving the garden and its broken promises behind.

──────

The last rays of sunset painted the church basketball court in shades of orange and purple as Bret arrived to find Alex running solo drills. The rhythmic thump of the ball against concrete filled the cool evening air. Without a word, Bret dropped his backpack and fell into their familiar two-man weave, grateful for the mindless rhythm of a game they’d played countless times before.

“So,” Alex said, launching a perfect three-pointer, “you gonna tell me what’s really going on?”

Bret caught the rebound, gripping the ball too tightly. “What do you mean?”

Alex smirked, dribbling lazily. “Come on, man. Known you since second grade. You’ve been off all week—quiet, distracted. Something’s up.”

Bret hesitated, studying the cracked concrete beneath his feet. The questions that had taken root in his mind felt too big to voice, even to Alex.

“I’m fine,” he said finally, passing back. The lie sounded hollow even to himself.

Alex caught the ball, narrowing his eyes. “You sure? ‘Cause you haven’t been yourself. Skipping morning prayer group, zoning out during youth meetings…” He paused. “And I saw Jenna leaving the garden earlier. She looked pretty upset.”

Bret forced a laugh. “Maybe I’m just tired. Senior year, you know?”

“It’s more than that.” Alex held the ball, his expression serious. “Remember sixth grade? When my dad left?”

Bret nodded; the memory vivid. He had found Alex crying in the church supply closet, hiding from everyone. Back then, Bret’s faith had been solid, unshakable. He had quoted scripture, prayed with Alex for hours, promised him God had a plan.

“You didn’t just pray with me then,” Alex continued softly. “You believed it. Like, really believed it. You were so sure God had a plan for everything.”

“I was thirteen,” Bret muttered, avoiding Alex’s gaze. “It was easier to be sure back then.”

“And now?” Alex stepped closer. “What’s changed?”

Bret’s hands fidgeted with the basketball. He wanted to tell Alex everything—about the biology test, the hollow prayers, the gnawing doubts. But saying it out loud felt like crossing a line he couldn’t uncross.

“Nothing’s changed,” he lied, throwing the ball toward the hoop. It clanged off the rim, his first airball in years.

“First miss since freshman year,” Alex said quietly, catching the rebound. He held the ball, studying Bret. “Look, you don’t have to tell me if you’re not ready. But I’m here, okay? No judgment.”

They bumped fists—three taps and a spin, their ritual since middle school. “God’s got us,” Alex said, their usual closing line.

But as Bret reached for his water bottle, the words felt wrong. Empty. Like a language he was losing the ability to speak.

“See you at school tomorrow?” Alex called as Bret shouldered his backpack.

“Yeah,” Bret replied, forcing a nod. “See you then.”

Walking home through the gathering dusk, the cooling air did little to calm the storm in his chest. Each step felt heavier than the last, the weight of the day’s losses pressing down on him. First his mother’s prayers, then Jenna’s tears, now Alex’s concern—three pillars of his old life, each straining under the weight of questions he couldn’t escape.

Above him, stars emerged one by one, their light reaching Earth after millions of years—each photon confirming the calculations that had started his fall from grace. He wondered, not for the first time, if this was how Adam felt after eating the fruit of knowledge: suddenly, terribly aware that there was no going back to the certainty of Eden.

Chapter 3: Morning Shadows

Wednesday morning, 7:15 AM. Bret stared at his reflection in the second-floor bathroom mirror of First Baptist Church of Christ, adjusting his collar for the third time. Dark circles under his eyes betrayed a week of sleepless nights. His youth leader name tag sat on the edge of the sink, still unpinned to his shirt. In fifteen minutes, he was supposed to lead the pre-school prayer group—part of Fusion’s “Start Your Day with God” program that had been his idea last semester. Forty students gave up an hour of sleep every Wednesday to pray together before school. He used to consider it his greatest achievement as youth leader.

The door creaked open. Bret quickly grabbed his name tag, but it was only Tommy, clutching his ever-present notebook.

“Oh, hey.” Tommy hesitated in the doorway. “I wanted to catch you before prayer group. I found this article about the Grand Canyon layers.”

“Not now,” Bret cut him off, pinning on his name tag with trembling fingers. The last week had brought a steady stream of Tommy’s questions, each one hitting closer to home.

“But—”

“I said not now.” The words came out sharper than intended. Tommy’s face fell, and guilt twisted in Bret’s stomach. A month ago, he would have welcomed these questions, using them as teaching moments about faith versus doubt. Now each one felt like another crack in his carefully maintained facade.

Tommy left, and Bret gripped the sink’s edge, trying to steady himself. Through the small window overlooking Elm Street, he could see more students arriving, their parents’ cars pulling into the church lot for Wednesday morning devotions. Madison from his biology class walked past carrying her telescope case, headed down Elm toward Brown Street and the high school. She’d invited him to join her early morning astronomy club last week, but he’d declined. What would his prayer group think if they saw their leader studying the heavens through a scientist’s lens?

His phone buzzed: a group text from Pastor Josh to all youth leaders.

“Remember: Standing firm against secular influence is crucial. Our kids need clear, biblical answers. No room for uncertainty.”

Bret’s thumb hovered over the thumbs up emoji the other leaders were already posting. Before he could respond, another text appeared—this one from Jenna.

“Can you lead worship today? I’m not feeling well.”

His chest tightened. They hadn’t spoken properly since that afternoon in the garden. Every interaction since then had been careful, distant, loaded with unspoken words. He typed “sure,” knowing they both recognized the lie in her excuse.

The bathroom door opened again. This time it was Alex, his Bible tucked under his arm.

“Thought I’d find you here,” Alex said, letting the door swing shut. “You’ve been hiding out before prayer group all week.”

“Not hiding,” Bret muttered. “Just… preparing.”

Alex leaned against the wall; his expression concerned. “Yeah? That why you haven’t shown up for basketball after youth group? Mom says she hasn’t seen your car in the driveway all week.”

“Been busy.”

“Right.” Alex studied him carefully. “Look, I know something’s going on. The others might buy your ‘just tired’ act, but I know you better than that.” He paused. “Is it about Jenna?”

Bret almost laughed. If only it were that simple—just relationship drama, something normal teenagers dealt with. Not this cosmic unraveling of everything he’d built his life upon.

“I’m fine,” he said, straightening his collar one last time. “We should get downstairs. Pastor Josh likes the leaders there early to pray before the group arrives.”

Alex blocked the door. “You know what’s weird? When my dad left, you knew exactly what to say. All that stuff about God’s plan, about trusting even when things don’t make sense.” He watched Bret’s reflection in the mirror. “What happened to that guy?”

The question hit like a physical blow. What had happened to that guy? He’d calculated his own extinction in biology class, each equation erasing another piece of his certainty.

The church bells chimed the quarter hour, saving him from answering. “We’re late,” he said, reaching for the door.

Alex moved aside, but his words followed Bret into the hallway: “You can’t hide forever, man. Whatever’s eating at you—it’s getting bigger.”

Walking toward the prayer room, Bret passed the window overlooking the corner of Elm and Sparks. Cars were still pulling in, dropping off students for morning devotions. He paused, watching Madison’s figure growing smaller as she made her way down Elm toward Brown Street. For a moment, he envied her certainty—not in God or faith, but in the measurable, provable mechanics of the universe.

The prayer room door loomed ahead. Inside, his group would be waiting, Bibles open, hearts ready for guidance. Tommy would be there, his questions carefully contained. Jenna would be absent, her excuse hanging between them like a curtain. And he would stand before them all, playing a role that fits less comfortably with each passing day.

Bret touched his grandmother’s cross pendant, its familiar weight now a reminder of distance rather than closeness. Then he pushed open the door, ready to pretend for another morning that his foundation wasn’t crumbling beneath his feet.

──────

The youth room was packed, the air thick with anticipation. Every Wednesday night, Fusion felt like an extension of home for Bret—a space where faith was reinforced, where questioning wasn’t supposed to happen. But tonight, the air carried a weight Bret couldn’t shake. He sat near the front, hands clasped, staring down at his Bible. Jenna was beside him, posture straight, radiating quiet certainty. Across the room, Tommy leaned against the back wall, arms crossed, an almost expectant look on his face.

Pastor Josh stepped to the front, smiling, flipping through his notes. “Alright, before we begin, let’s start in prayer.” His gaze shifted toward Bret. “Bret, why don’t you lead us tonight?”

The request wasn’t unusual. Bret had led prayers dozens of times before. But tonight, it felt different. Tonight, it felt like a test.

He nodded, clearing his throat. “Sure.”

He bowed his head, but as soon as he opened his mouth, the words wouldn’t come. His mind scrambled, reaching for something automatic, something rehearsed—but it all felt empty. A few seconds passed. Then a few more.

A whisper. “Bret?” Jenna’s voice, concerned.

A few students glanced at each other. Corey, sitting two rows back, smirked. “Come on, man. You’ve prayed a thousand times. What’s up?”

A nervous chuckle rippled through the group. Pastor Josh gave him an encouraging nod. They were waiting. Watching. The leader of the youth was struggling to pray.

He forced a breath. “Father God, we… we just thank you for this time together. We ask for your guidance as we—” his voice faltered “—as we stand firm in your truth.”

The phrase felt hollow.

“Amen,” Pastor Josh finished smoothly. “Let’s get into tonight’s message.”

Jenna’s eyes stayed on Bret, piercing through him. She knew something was wrong. And now, so did everyone else.

After service, Bret grabbed his bag and made his way toward the door, but Pastor Josh’s hand landed on his shoulder before he could leave. “That was a bit shaky up there.”

Bret forced a chuckle. “Yeah, I guess I was just distracted.”

Josh’s expression didn’t change. “Everything alright?”

“Yeah. Just tired.”

Josh studied him for a long moment. “You know, leadership comes with responsibility. If you’re struggling with anything, you can come to me. You know that, right?”

Bret nodded quickly. “Yeah. Thanks, Pastor.”

Josh didn’t look convinced, but he let him go. Bret stepped outside, the cool night air hitting him like a wall. The parking lot was mostly empty now, except for one person waiting beside his car—Jenna.

She was leaning against the hood, arms crossed. The moment their eyes met, he knew there was no avoiding this. “You were off tonight,” she said, her voice carefully measured.

“I told you, I was tired.”

“No.” She shook her head. “It’s more than that. And you know it.”

Bret sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Jenna, I don’t want to do this right now.”

“Yeah, well, too bad.” She stepped closer, voice lowering. “Bret, what’s going on with you? You hesitated when you prayed, you barely looked at your Bible during small group, and Tommy—” she exhaled sharply “—Tommy is acting like you’re some kind of hero. He told me you’ve been talking. A lot.”

Bret tensed. “So what if we have?”

“So what?” Her voice cracked. “You’ve been encouraging his doubts, haven’t you? Don’t even try to deny it.”

“I’ve been talking to him. That’s all.”

Jenna shook her head, stepping back as if seeing him differently. “No, it’s not just talking. You’re changing. And I need to know… do you even believe anymore?”

The air between them went still. He could lie. He could make this easy. But he was tired of pretending.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I don’t think that’s a sin.”

Jenna flinched as if he had physically hit her. She had been expecting denial, not honesty.

Her voice softened, trembling now. “It starts with questions, Bret. Then what? You throw everything away? Your faith? Your future? Us?”

Bret looked at her, something breaking inside him. She wasn’t just talking about faith. She was talking about them.

“Maybe I just need time.”

Jenna shook her head, stepping back. “I can’t do this. I can’t watch you throw everything away.” But then, for the briefest moment, something in her expression wavered. Doubt. Fear. A flicker of something she wouldn’t dare name.

Bret caught it—just long enough to wonder if, deep down, she was afraid to ask the same questions.

But then it was gone. She turned away, her footsteps hurried, almost frantic. She wasn’t just leaving him in the parking lot. She was leaving him.

Bret watched her go, the lump in his throat tightening. He didn’t chase her. He didn’t call out her name. Because deep down, he knew she had already made up her mind. Or at least, she needed to believe she had.

That night, sleep didn’t come easily. Bret lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying every moment of the evening. The way Jenna’s face had fallen. The way Pastor Josh had watched him like he already knew. His phone vibrated on the nightstand. He reached for it, heart pounding.

Tommy: What happened tonight?

Bret: Jenna knows. Josh knows. Maybe everyone does.

A long pause. Then:

Tommy: Then I guess there’s no turning back now.

Bret stared at the screen for a long moment. No turning back. The words sat heavy in his chest. Hadn’t he known that all along?

The phone buzzed again.

Tommy: You okay?

Bret hesitated, thumb hovering over the keyboard. Was he?

He closed his eyes, gripping the phone tighter. He could still feel the weight of the silence in that prayer room, the way everyone had been watching him.

Finally, he typed two words and hit send.

Bret: Not really.

──────

The prayer room door closed behind Bret with a soft click. Thirty pairs of eyes turned toward him—students who’d sacrificed an hour of sleep to pray together before school. Tommy sat in the front row, his notebook conspicuously closed for once. Jenna’s empty chair seemed to mock him from its usual spot.

“Sorry I’m late,” Bret said, moving to the front. His voice sounded strange in his ears, too controlled. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead as he opened his Bible, the pages falling to his usual devotional spot in Psalms. But instead of divine wisdom, all he could see were the biology equations from yesterday, numbers that spoke of an Earth far older than scripture claimed.

“Let’s, uh, begin with prayer,” he managed, bowing his head. The others followed suit; a synchronized movement born of years of practice. “Dear Lord…” He paused, the familiar words suddenly foreign on his tongue. Through the window, he imagined Madison and her telescope case disappearing down Elm Street toward Brown. “Guide us today in Your truth.”

The prayer felt hollow, each word echoing with doubt. He moved through the devotional on autopilot, something about standing firm in faith. The irony wasn’t lost on him. When he opened the floor for prayer requests, Tommy’s hand shot up immediately.

“Could we pray about the evolution unit?” Tommy asked, his voice earnest. “It’s really confusing, and—”

“We’ll pray for wisdom in all our classes,” Bret cut him off, avoiding Tommy’s disappointed look. He couldn’t handle any more questions about evolution, not when his own faith was crumbling.

The walk to Boaz High School felt longer than usual. Other students streamed past, their conversations about tests and homework seeming trivial compared to the war in his mind. The brick building loomed ahead, its windows reflecting the morning sun. Through one of them, Bret could see Madison setting up her telescope in Mr. Ferguson’s classroom for the astronomy club.

First period Biology brought a fresh wave of anxiety. Dr. Phillips wrote “Natural Selection” on the board, and Bret’s stomach churned. He pulled out his notebook, the pages still creased from yesterday’s calculations about Earth’s age. The empty chair beside him where Jenna usually sat felt like a physical representation of the growing distance between his old life and whatever this was becoming.

“Today we’ll examine the evidence for evolutionary adaptation,” Dr. Phillips began, her voice steady and certain. “The fossil record shows us…”

Bret’s pen moved automatically, taking notes even as his mind rebelled. Each piece of evidence she presented felt like another crack in his foundation. The worst part wasn’t that it contradicted scripture—it was that it made sense. Perfect, logical, mathematical sense.

“Mr. Johnson,” Dr. Phillips called, making him jump. “Could you explain to the class how artificial selection demonstrates natural selection principles?”

For a moment, Bret froze. He knew the answer—had read it, understood it, even found it fascinating. But speaking it aloud, with Tommy watching from two rows back, felt like betrayal.

“I…” he started, his voice cracking. “Artificial selection is when humans…” He trailed off as Pastor Josh’s text from earlier flashed in his mind: ‘Standing firm against secular influence is crucial.’

“Take your time,” Dr. Phillips said kindly, but her eyes held something else—recognition, perhaps, of his internal struggle.

The bell saved him from answering. As students packed up, Madison caught his eye from across the room. “Astronomy club is doing solar observations tomorrow morning,” she said. “Offer’s still open if you want to join.”

Bret glanced at his youth leader name tag, still pinned to his shirt. “I have prayer group,” he said automatically, though the words tasted bitter.

“Right,” Madison nodded, unsurprised. “Well, if you ever change your mind…”

He watched her leave, and felt the weight of his name tag like a brand. In a few hours, he’d have to lead another youth group discussion about unwavering faith. The thought made him sick.

Alex was waiting outside the classroom. “Hey, you free for basketball after youth group?”

“Can’t,” Bret said quickly. “Need to study.”

Alex’s face fell slightly. “You’ve been saying that all week. Since when do you pick homework over basketball?”

Since equations started making more sense than prayers, Bret thought but didn’t say. Instead, he just shrugged, adjusting his backpack. “Things change.”

“Yeah,” Alex said quietly, watching him with growing concern. “I guess they do.”

──────

The afternoon sun slanted through Bret’s bedroom window, casting long shadows across his desk where two books lay open side by side: his biology textbook and his grandmother’s Bible. His youth leader notebook sat unopened in his backpack—he couldn’t face preparing tonight’s lesson, not yet. Not with the questions burning in his mind.

He turned to the biology chapter on evolutionary adaptation, his fingers tracing the diagram of the geological time scale. Each layer told a story backed by evidence—radiometric dating, fossil records, genetic markers. The same equations he’d worked out in class stared back at him: 2.7 million years, 2.8 million years. Numbers that couldn’t be ignored or explained away.

The Bible lay open to Genesis, its familiar verses suddenly foreign under his scientific scrutiny. Two creation accounts that didn’t quite match. Plants before humans in one version, after humans in another. He’d always glossed over these details during Bible study, focusing instead on the spiritual meaning. But now, the contradictions felt impossible to ignore.

His laptop screen glowed with open tabs—scientific journals, biblical commentaries, apologetics websites. He’d started his research hoping to defend his faith, to find answers that would silence his doubts. Instead, each new piece of information only raised more questions.

A soft knock at his door made him quickly minimize the browser. “Come in.”

His mother appeared, carrying a plate of cookies. “Thought you might need a study break.” Her eyes fell on the open Bible, and her face brightened. “Oh good, you’re doing your devotionals.”

“Yeah,” Bret mumbled, guilt twisting in his stomach. “Just… studying.”

She set the cookies down and touched his shoulder. “Don’t forget to pray before youth group tonight. Pastor Josh mentioned you seemed distracted this morning.”

After she left, Bret pulled up his research again. A new email notification caught his eye—Madison sharing notes from astronomy club. The subject line read: “In case you change your mind about tomorrow.” Attached was a photo of their telescope aimed at the morning sun, capturing solar flares dancing across its surface. The image stirred something in him, a sense of wonder different from anything he’d felt in prayer group lately.

He turned back to his biology textbook, to the section on human evolution. The evidence was laid out in clear, logical steps: DNA comparisons, fossil records, anatomical developments. It wasn’t just plausible, it was compelling. His pen moved across his notebook, working through the calculations again, each number another nail in the coffin of his young-earth beliefs.

The cross pendant around his neck felt heavy, like it was tightening with each page he read. He reached up to touch it, remembering his grandmother’s words at his baptism: “This will remind you of God’s truth.” But what was truth? The carefully documented evidence before him, or the stories he’d built his life around.

His gaze drifted to the youth group photos on his wall. There he was at summer camp, leading worship with Alex, both of them glowing with certainty. Alex’s face jumped out at him from several shots—playing basketball, studying scripture, serving at the soup kitchen. His best friend, who still believed everything Bret was starting to doubt.

A text from Alex lit up his phone: “Missed you at basketball. Again. Whatever’s going on, I’m here if you need to talk.”

Bret started to reply, then stopped. How could he explain that his whole worldview was unraveling? That the equations in his biology book made more sense than the verses he’d memorized? That every scientific fact he learned felt like another step away from the faith that had defined their friendship?

The sun was setting now, casting his room in shades of orange and purple. In a few hours, he’d have to stand before Fusion youth group, pretending to have answers he no longer believed in. He closed the biology book, but the numbers remained, burned into his mind like afterimages: 2.7 million years, 2.8 million years. Evidence that couldn’t be prayed away.

His journal lay hidden beneath his mattress, filled with questions he couldn’t voice aloud. He pulled it out, flipping past pages of devotional notes to a blank space. His pen hovered over the paper, then began to move:

“What if it’s all wrong? What if the truth isn’t in scripture but in science? And if that’s true, what does that make me?”

The questions stared back at him, honest and terrifying. Outside his window, the first stars were becoming visible. Not God’s handiwork now, but ancient light reaching across millions of years of space, each photon carrying evidence of a universe far older and more complex than his Sunday School lessons had ever admitted.

The weight of his youth leader name tag pressed against his chest from his backpack, a reminder of the role he’d soon have to play. But now, in the growing darkness of his room, he couldn’t find the strength to pretend anymore. The gap between what he believed and what he knew was widening, and he wasn’t sure how much longer he could stand with one foot on each side.

──────

Somehow, he’d survived another night at Fusion. Now, the evening’s revelations settled over Bret as he lay on his bed, watching the glowing red numbers on his alarm clock: 11:43 PM. Tonight felt different from the endless nights of analyzing Bible contradictions or reconciling textbooks. Tonight, the weight in his chest wasn’t intellectual doubt but something deeper—a final, irreversible shifting of his heart.

Radiant Grace’s faces stared down at him from the youth group poster, their smiles confident, their faith unshakable. Like Pastor Josh’s certainty, like Jenna’s unwavering belief, like Tommy’s earnest questions—he remembered buying that poster at summer camp, when worship had moved through him like electricity. The memory felt distant now, like watching a stranger’s home movies.

“I don’t feel You anymore,” he whispered into the darkness. Not a question or a prayer, but a simple truth. The admission carried no guilt, only relief, like finally speaking a secret he’d carried too long.

His youth leader notebook lay open on his desk, tomorrow’s lesson plans unfinished. After today’s classes, after Tommy’s questions, after watching Madison’s telescope capture the sun’s ancient light, the sight of it triggered not confusion but clarity: he couldn’t do this anymore. Not because the Bible contradicted itself, not because science disproved faith, but because his heart wasn’t in it. The certainty that had once filled him was gone, replaced by something else, something honest and real and his.

Standing, he moved to his window. Stars burned in ancient patterns overhead, their light reaching Earth after traveling millions of years, each photon confirming the calculations from biology class. The Andromeda galaxy, visible as a faint smudge, had sent its light 2.5 million years ago, long before humans dreamed up creation stories or imagined themselves the center of existence.

His gaze shifted to his desk, where college applications waited: Liberty University’s youth ministry program on top, MIT’s aerospace engineering brochure hidden beneath. For the first time, he reached for the MIT brochure without shame. His hands didn’t shake as he moved it to the top of the pile. The act felt like choosing himself, choosing truth, choosing life.

The Mars rover photos on his laptop showed a planet shaped by billions of years of geological processes, indifferent to human timeframes or divine plans. Just like the rock samples from class, their raw beauty needed no supernatural explanation. Like the stars above, they simply were—magnificent in their reality, perfect in their indifference.

“God,” he started, then stopped. The silence wasn’t empty anymore. It simply was. Like gravity, like entropy, like the laws that governed the universe—neither cruel nor kind, just real.

He pulled out his journal one last time. Instead of questions or arguments, he wrote a goodbye: “I’ve spent years talking to You, feeling You, living for You. Maybe You were real. Maybe You were something I needed to believe in. Either way, I’m ready to live without You. Not because I’m angry or hurt, but because I’m different now. Because I’m free.”

The words didn’t feel like betrayal anymore. They felt like truth—his truth, hard-won and honest. The faithful youth leader, the devoted son, the certain believer—those weren’t roles he was failing to play. They were someone he used to be, someone he’d grown beyond.

Outside his window, the night sky stretched endlessly, stars scattered across space like diamonds on black velvet. Their light had traveled unimaginable distances, carrying messages from a universe vaster and older than any human religion had dared to imagine. He didn’t need them to prove or disprove anything anymore. Their existence was enough. He was enough.

Tomorrow will come with its familiar routines and expectations. But tonight, in the quiet dark of his room, Bret felt something he hadn’t expected: peace. Not the peace that passes understanding, but the peace that comes from understanding. From being honest. From letting go.

He finally lay down, no longer exhausted by doubt but calm with certainty—not the certainty of faith, but the certainty of knowing himself. The last thing he saw before closing his eyes was First Baptist Church of Christ’s steeple through his window, its shadow stretching across his bed like a divide between his past and future. The sight filled him not with anxiety but with clarity: he was ready for whatever came next.

In those quiet hours before dawn, that certainty felt unshakable. He had no way of knowing that the universe was about to test his newfound clarity in the cruelest way possible—not with questions or doubts, but with the random indifference of existence itself.

Chapter 4: The Void

Bret dreamed of stars—billions of them, stretching across an infinite void, their light traveling through millions of years of empty space. The dream brought no fear, only a profound sense of peace. For the first time since his doubts began, he felt truly free.

The shrill ring of the phone shattered that serenity. His mother’s voice floated up from downstairs—cheerful at first, then suddenly sharp with fear. The sound jolted him from one reality into another, from cosmic acceptance to immediate human crisis.

“Bret, come down!” she called, her voice trembling. “Quickly!”

The urgency pulled him from bed, his mind still half-caught in that dream of stars and certainty. Just hours ago, he’d finally found peace in accepting a godless universe, in embracing the beautiful indifference of existence. Now each step down the cold stairs yanked him further from that clarity, back into the messy reality of human suffering.

His mother stood in the kitchen, gripping the phone so tightly her knuckles were white. Morning sunlight streamed through the window, the same sunlight whose ancient photons he’d studied in physics class, now seeming cruel in its steady, unchanging rhythm. His gaze caught the ceramic cross above the sink, the one he and Alex had hung after last summer’s youth camp. Last night, such symbols had lost their power over him. Now they seemed to mock his newfound freedom.

“What happened?” he asked, his voice low.

“It’s Alex,” his mother said, her face pale. “He was hit by a car while riding his bike. They don’t think,” her voice broke. She steadied herself against the counter. “They don’t think he’s going to make it.”

The words collided with everything he’d resolved just hours ago. Alex, who’d watched basketball games spiral across space on Bret’s laptop. Alex, who’d listened to his first doubts without judgment. Alex, who’d texted him just last night about nothing and everything. The kitchen tilted sideways, last night’s peaceful acceptance of randomness suddenly tasting like poison.

“We need to go to the hospital,” his mother said softly, reaching for his shoulder. Her touch, meant to comfort, only highlighted the gap between her faith and his new reality.

Bret stood frozen, staring at the cross. Last night, he’d written in his journal about accepting a universe without divine plan or purpose. Now, faced with random tragedy, that acceptance felt like hubris. His lips moved in what started as a prayer but ended as a curse: “Why him? Why now? Why—” He stopped, remembering that ‘why’ was a human question, meaningless to an indifferent cosmos.

The drive to the hospital blurred past familiar landmarks—First Baptist Church of Christ, the high school. Each building seemed to belong to a different lifetime, one where prayers might change things, where faith could shield against tragedy. His mother’s whispered prayers filled the car, her certainty unchanged by chaos. Bret pressed his forehead against the cool window, remembering how he and Alex had walked these streets last summer, both so sure of God’s plan. The memory felt like a cruel joke now.

Marshall Medical Center South rose before them, its architecture all clean lines and right angles, as indifferent as the laws of physics that had brought Alex’s bicycle into collision with unforgiving metal. Inside, the antiseptic smell and fluorescent lights stripped away any remaining illusion of cosmic meaning. This was reality: sterile, mathematical, precise in its cruelty.

The waiting room was already full of church faces. Pastor Josh stood with Alex’s parents, offering the same certainties about God’s mysterious ways that Bret had rejected hours ago. The Fusion group huddled together, alternating between tears and prayers. Bret couldn’t join either group. The peace he’d found in accepting a godless universe now felt like a luxury he couldn’t afford.

His mother squeezed his hand. “Should we pray?”

The question hung between them like a chasm. Last night, he’d written about being ready to live without God. But he hadn’t been ready for this—for the way tragedy made randomness feel like abandonment, for how cosmic indifference could hurt more than divine rejection.

“I need some air,” he managed, stepping away from the prayers and platitudes. In the space of twelve hours, he’d lost his God and now stood to lose his best friend. The timing felt like a cosmic joke, but he’d just convinced himself the cosmos didn’t joke. It simply was, vast and empty and real, rolling on while Alex’s atoms hung in precarious balance between life and death.

He sank into a chair apart from the others, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like the background radiation of an expanding universe. The peace he’d found in that expansion last night now felt hollow, insufficient for this moment of human grief. Maybe that was the real test of his newfound atheism—not whether he could accept it in moments of astronomical wonder, but whether it could hold up against the weight of personal loss.

The prayers continued around him, a familiar rhythm he could no longer join. He closed his eyes, seeing again the stars from his dream, their light traveling through millions of years of empty space. But now they seemed less like symbols of freedom and more like distant witnesses to an uncaring universe—one that could grant perfect peace one moment and shatter it the next, without reason or purpose or plan.

──────

Late afternoon sun slanted through the hospital windows, the waiting room’s fluorescent lights taking on a sickly cast against the natural light. Bret shifted in his hard plastic chair; muscles stiff from hours of sitting. No word since morning. No change in Alex’s condition.

Different church members had cycled through, bringing casseroles for Alex’s family, offering hugs, whispering prayers. Mrs. Wilson from Sunday School. The Thompson twins from Fusion youth group. Each arrival stirred the same bitter thought in Bret’s mind: How many prayers would it take? Was there a critical mass that would move a non-existent God to action?

His Bible lay unopened on his lap, placed there by his mother with a hopeful glance. Across the room, Alex’s parents still clung to each other, their initial shock hardening into something more permanent. His mother had finally stopped her constant prayers, dozing in the chair beside him.

Tommy appeared in the doorway, his face pale. He hesitated before approaching Bret. “I brought your physics homework,” he said, holding out a folder. “And… I’ve been praying. About Alex. About everything.”

Bret took the folder without meeting Tommy’s eyes. Last week’s questions about evolution felt trivial now. “Thanks.”

“The whole class is praying,” Tommy added. “Even Mr. Ferguson mentioned him.”

Something sharp twisted in Bret’s chest. Mr. Ferguson, who’d taught them about entropy and decay, who’d showed them a universe of mathematical precision, was praying? The irony might have been funny if it wasn’t so tragic.

“Did he solve an equation for it?” Bret asked, the words coming out harsher than he intended. Tommy flinched, and Bret immediately regretted it. “Sorry. I’m just…”

“I get it,” Tommy said softly, though Bret knew he didn’t. How could he? Tommy’s questions had always been about strengthening his faith, not destroying it.

A doctor appeared, her scrubs wrinkled from a long shift. Alex’s parents stood immediately, hope and fear warring on their faces. Bret’s mother jerked awake beside him.

The news wasn’t good. Words like “critical condition” and “next twenty-four hours” floated across the room. Alex’s mother made a sound Bret had never heard before, something between a sob and a scream. His father’s face went blank, as if his features had been wiped clean.

Pastor Josh materialized again, as he had throughout the day, ready with scripture and comfort. But this time, Alex’s mother cut him off. “No more prayers,” she said, her voice raw. “I need to see my son.”

The words hung in the air like a confession. For the first time, Bret saw something flicker across Pastor Josh’s face—not doubt exactly, but something less certain than his usual confidence.

Bret watched Alex’s parents follow the doctor down the hall, their shoulders bent as if walking into a strong wind. His mother squeezed his hand. “Should we pray again?”

“I need some air,” Bret said, standing abruptly. He made his way to the elevator, his Bible forgotten on the chair.

The hospital’s automatic doors slid open, releasing him into the evening air. He found a bench near the emergency entrance, away from the small groups of smokers huddled under yellow lights. A siren wailed in the distance—another crisis, another family’s world shattering.

He pulled out the physics homework Tommy had brought, needing something solid to focus on. Problems about velocity and acceleration. Clean, predictable answers that had nothing to do with prayers or miracles. But as he stared at the equations, a new thought struck him: these same laws of physics had brought the car that hit Alex, had determined the force of impact, had caused the damage the doctors were now fighting.

“Mind if I join you?”

He looked up to find Madison, her backpack slung over one shoulder. Of all people, she might understand. She’d seen his doubts beginning in biology class, had watched him wrestling with evidence and faith.

“Tommy told me about Alex,” she said, sitting beside him. She didn’t offer prayers or platitudes, just her presence.

“Did you know,” Bret said after a moment, “that the average human body contains seven octillion atoms? That’s a seven with twenty-seven zeros.” He paused, his voice tight. “Right now, doctors are trying to put Alex’s atoms back in the right order. And everyone up there thinks prayer will help with that.”

Madison didn’t respond immediately, just watched an ambulance pull into the emergency bay. “When my dad was sick,” she said finally, “people kept telling my mom it was part of God’s plan. She said if that was true, she wanted no part of God’s plan.”

The words hit Bret like a physical force. “What did you do?” he asked. “How did you…”

“I stopped looking for meaning,” she said. “Sometimes things just happen. Random chance, bad luck, whatever you want to call it. It’s not fair or unfair. It just is.”

A doctor hurried past them into the hospital, her white coat billowing. Somewhere inside that building, Alex’s atoms were scattered in the wrong configuration, and all the prayers in Boaz couldn’t change the laws of physics that would determine if they’d come back together properly.

“I should go back up,” Bret said, though he made no move to stand. “Everyone will be wondering where I am. Expecting me to lead another prayer or something.”

“You don’t owe them that,” Madison said quietly. “You don’t owe anyone your pretend faith.”

“But Alex—”

“Would want you to be honest. Even now. Especially now.”

──────

Three a.m. The surgery had ended hours ago, but the news hadn’t improved. Most of the church members had gone home, leaving behind casseroles, and promises to return in the morning. Only the die-hards remained—Bret’s mother, Pastor Josh, and a few others who seemed to think their continuous prayers might tip some divine scale.

The night shift nurse moved differently than her daytime counterpart, more efficient, less comforting. Her updates were shorter, clinical: “No change.” “Still critical.” “Next few hours are crucial.” She didn’t try to soften the words with sympathetic smiles or gentle touches.

Bret had abandoned his chair for the floor, his back against the wall, legs stretched out on the cold tile. His Bible lay forgotten on the chair above him. The fluorescent lights buzzed with a pitch that burrowed into his skull, making it impossible to think or pray or even grieve properly.

Alex’s father had taken his wife home to shower and change, extracting a promise from the nurse to call immediately if anything changed. The word ‘anything’ had hung in the air, its dark implications clear to everyone.

Pastor Josh was running out of scriptures. He’d worked his way through the usual comfort verses hours ago: the shepherd psalm, the footprints poem, all the greatest hits. Now he was deep in Lamentations, quoting passages about God’s faithfulness during suffering. The words seemed to echo off the empty chairs.

“Bret?” his mother’s voice, hoarse from hours of prayer. “You should try to sleep.”

He shook his head. Sleep felt like betrayal. Besides, every time he closed his eyes, he saw Alex at youth camp, healthy and whole, talking about God’s perfect plan. The memory was worse than the exhaustion.

The night nurse appeared again, this time with a doctor behind her. Something had changed, Bret could see it in the set of their shoulders, the careful way they approached. The doctor spoke into his phone, summoning Alex’s parents back to the hospital.

“Should we pray?” someone whispered.

Bret pushed himself up from the floor, legs numb from sitting too long. It was becoming a habit: “I need air,” he mumbled, though no one was really listening. They were already forming their prayer circle, Pastor Josh’s voice taking on new urgency.

The hospital corridors felt endless, identical, a maze of sanitized suffering. He found himself in the chapel, its stained glass dark and lifeless at night. A few electric candles flickered on the altar, running on batteries instead of faith.

He sat in the back pew, remembering all the times he’d led youth group devotions about trusting God in hard times. He’d had such clear answers then, such confident explanations for suffering. Now, watching his best friend die, those explanations felt like children’s stories—nice ideas that crumbled under the weight of reality.

The door creaked open. The night nurse stood there; her face professionally neutral. “Are you Bret? Your mother’s looking for you.” She paused. “You should come back now.”

He knew what that meant. They all knew what that meant. Standing, he noticed his reflection in the dark window—pale, hollow-eyed, a stranger to himself. The boy who’d once led prayers with such certainty was gone. In his place stood someone new, someone who understood that sometimes the universe simply took what it wanted, leaving nothing but questions behind.

The walk back to the waiting room felt like crossing a border between two worlds, the one where miracles were possible and the one where they weren’t. He could hear crying before he reached the door. Not the hopeful tears of before, but the raw sounds of a world breaking apart.

Pastor Josh stood helpless, his Bible closed, no more verses left to quote. Alex’s mother had collapsed into her husband’s arms. The prayer circle had dissolved, faith fracturing in the face of finality.

Bret’s mother reached for him, but he couldn’t move. This was what a godless universe looked like—random, cruel, indifferent to human suffering. He’d understood it in theory, reading his physics textbook. Now he understood it in truth, watching his best friend’s parents learn that their son was gone.

The night nurse moved efficiently around them, collecting the tissue boxes and coffee cups that had accumulated over the long hours. The fluorescent lights buzzed on, unchanged. Outside, the sun would rise soon, indifferent to their grief. The universe continued its cold expansion, leaving them all behind.

Chapter 5–Aftermath

The world after Alex’s death divided itself neatly into before and after, like a clean break in time. But nothing about it felt clean. Dawn was breaking as Bret unlocked his front door, the pale light revealing a house that felt wrong in its stubborn normalcy. The hallway light still worked, the refrigerator still hummed, the world kept turning, all of it an obscene reminder that the universe continued unmoved by the absence of his friend.

He dropped his backpack by the door and climbed the stairs, each step feeling heavier than the last. His parents had stayed behind at the hospital with Alex’s family. No one knew what to say or do. Prayer had failed. Science had failed. Everything had failed.

When he reached his room, he stood in the doorway, taking in the scene: the youth group photos on his wall, Alex’s face grinning from half of them. The basketball they’d used last week leaning in the corner. The NASA poster that had started his doubts, its red Martian landscape now seeming appropriate—dead, empty, indifferent.

Bret sat heavily in his desk chair, his eyes falling on the leather-bound journal embossed with a silver cross. The sight of it sparked something like anger. His youth group had given it to him last Christmas, the same service where he and Alex had led worship together. Tonight, the sight of it filled him with an ache he couldn’t name.

Slowly, he opened the journal and stared at the blank page, pen hovering in midair. “Alex is dead,” he wrote, the words brutal in their simplicity. “We prayed. Everyone prayed. The whole town prayed. And he died anyway.”

The admission sat stark on the page, staring back at him like an accusation. He thought of all those hours in the hospital—the prayers, the hymns, the promises about God’s plan. None of it had mattered. Alex’s atoms had scattered according to the laws of physics, indifferent to their desperate faith.

“I kept waiting,” he wrote, his hand shaking. “Even after I’d admitted I didn’t believe anymore; some part of me thought God might show up at the last minute. Prove me wrong. Save Alex. Show everyone their faith wasn’t wasted. But there was no miracle. No divine intervention. Just machines beeping and then stopping.”

He paused, gripping the pen tightly. Pastor Josh’s final prayer echoed in his mind, the words continuing even after the monitor had flatlined. “We trust Your perfect plan, Lord.” How could anyone still trust after this?

“What kind of plan includes a seventeen-year-old boy dying alone in a hospital at 3 AM?” he wrote. “What kind of God watches parents pray for their son and does nothing? The same God who supposedly knows when a sparrow falls? The same God who claims to love us?”

The words poured out now, hot and angry: “Everyone’s already talking about Alex being ‘called home’ and ‘in a better place.’ They’re planning a funeral full of praise songs and scripture readings. They’ll talk about God’s mysterious ways and perfect timing. They’ll probably even thank Him. Thank Him for what? For ignoring us? For letting Alex die?”

He set the pen down, staring at the words until they blurred. His gaze drifted to his physics textbook, its equations about entropy and decay now feeling more honest than any Bible verse. The universe operated according to fixed laws. Prayer didn’t change them. Faith didn’t change them. Nothing changed them.

Standing, he moved to the window. The street below was coming alive—early morning joggers, newspaper deliveries, the first school bus of the day. How dare the world continue as if nothing had happened? As if Alex wasn’t gone? As if every prayer and belief he’d ever had hadn’t just been proven worthless?

He thought of Madison’s words at the hospital about accepting randomness. It had seemed cold then. Now it felt like the only truth he had left. Things happened. Good people died. The universe didn’t care.

Returning to his desk, he picked up the pen one last time: “I know now why I lost my faith before Alex died. Because if I still believed, if I was still counting on God to save him, losing him would have broken me completely. At least this way, I only have to grieve my friend. Not my God.”

Exhausted, he moved to his bed, his body heavy with more than fatigue. He couldn’t imagine going back to school, facing the prayers and platitudes, the well-meaning attempts to find meaning in meaningless tragedy. He couldn’t pretend anymore—not for his parents, not for Pastor Josh, not for anyone.

As he lay down, the faint hum of the refrigerator downstairs was the only sound in the quiet house. Soon his parents would come home. There would be funeral arrangements to discuss, casseroles to accept, sympathy cards to read. The machinery of small-town Christian grief would grind into motion. But he would not be part of it. Could not be part of it.

He closed his eyes, understanding finally that his journey away from faith hadn’t really been about scientific evidence or biblical contradictions. Those were just the cracks that let the truth in. The truth was simpler and harder: either God didn’t exist, or He didn’t care. Tonight, had proved that beyond any doubt. And either way, Bret was done pretending.

Sleep came slowly, bringing dreams not of heaven or angels, but of empty space and distant stars, of a universe vast enough to lose yourself in, where both faith and doubt meant nothing at all.

──────

Two days had passed since the hospital, days that blurred together in a haze of casseroles and condolences. Bret had barely left his room, feigning sleep whenever his mother checked on him. He’d ignored the youth group’s group chat, now filled with funeral planning and prayer requests. He couldn’t bear their certainty, their easy answers.

Friday morning brought what he’d been dreading: his dark suit laid out on the bed, his mother’s soft knock at the door. “We should leave early,” she said, her voice gentle. “The family needs our support.” No mention of his silence these past days, no questions about his absence from the prayer vigils. Just the weight of expectations, heavy as his funeral suit.

The church parking lot was already full—youth group members in awkward dark clothes, elderly women clutching casseroles, deacons directing traffic with practiced solemnity. Bret spotted Tommy near the entrance, red-eyed but dutifully handing out programs. The cover showed Alex’s senior portrait, his name, and beneath it, “Absent from the body, present with the Lord.”

Inside, the sanctuary felt smaller than usual, compressed by grief and flower arrangements. The Fusion group had reserved the entire left section, their usual seats transformed into a display of solidarity. But Bret followed his parents to the family section instead, where Alex’s mother reached for his hand as he passed. Her grip was fierce, desperate. He couldn’t meet her eyes.

Pastor Josh stood at the pulpit; his Bible open to John 11—Jesus weeping for Lazarus. Bret knew the script: soon there would be talk of resurrection, of death’s defeat, of heavenly reunion. All the answers that had crumbled in that hospital room at 3 AM.

The first hymn caught him off guard, “Great Is Thy Faithfulness,” Alex’s favorite. The congregation rose, voices lifting in practiced harmony. Bret remained seated; the words stuck in his throat. His mother’s hand touched his shoulder, a gentle prompt, but he shrugged it off. Let them sing about God’s faithfulness. He had watched that faithfulness fail in a sterile hospital room.

Pastor Josh’s sermon wove together the expected themes: Alex’s dedication to Christ, his leadership in youth group, his strong faith. “Even in his final hours,” Pastor Josh said, his voice thick with emotion, “this church’s prayers surrounded him with God’s love.”

Bret’s hands clenched in his lap. Final hours. He had been there for those hours, watching machines fail and prayers go unanswered. Watching Alex’s parents beg God for mercy while their son’s atoms scattered according to cold physical laws.

The youth group presentation came next. Sarah played guitar while others shared memories—Alex at summer camp, Alex leading worship, Alex witnessing to classmates. They had prepared a video montage, set to Christian music that spoke of Heaven’s glory. Photo after photo flashed across the screen: Alex at baptism, at Bible study, at mission trips. The faithful boy they wanted to remember.

But Bret saw different images: Alex in physics class, asking questions about stellar evolution. Alex listening without judgment to Bret’s first doubts. Alex, just weeks ago, admitting his own questions about prayer and divine will. They had been on similar journeys, though neither had fully understood it then.

Tommy stepped up to read scripture—Psalm 23, Alex’s mother’s request. His voice cracked at “the valley of the shadow of death,” and several youth group members moved to support him. Their faith cushioned them, Bret realized. Their certainty about Alex’s heavenly destination softened their grief.

Pastor Josh invited the congregation to pray. Heads bowed around him like a wave, but Bret kept his eyes open, studying the casket. The polished wood reflected the stained-glass windows, turning their colored light into something almost scientific—wavelengths and angles, not divine revelation.

Someone in the back started singing “Amazing Grace,” and the congregation joined in, their voices building with each verse. Even Alex’s father sang, tears streaming down his face, clinging to the promise of God’s sweet sound. Bret watched them all, their eyes closed, their faces lifted, their faith unshaken by what he had witnessed in that hospital room.

The service ended with an altar call. “Alex would have wanted anyone who doesn’t know Jesus to find Him today,” Pastor Josh said. Several people moved forward, their grief channeled into religious conviction. Bret remained seated, a stone in a river of faith flowing around him.

At the Hillcrest graveside, the sun broke through autumn clouds, and someone murmured about God’s timing. Bret stood apart from the crowd, watching them find meaning in randomness, purpose in chaos. Pastor Josh read from Revelation about a new heaven and new earth, about God wiping away every tear.

Bret thought of his physics textbook, of entropy and decay, of stars burning out across an indifferent universe. No tears would be wiped away. No grand reunion would come. There was only this: atoms and time, memory and loss.

After the final prayer, people lingered, sharing hugs and memories. Bret walked alone, what seemed like hours, to his car, still parked in the church lot. A Bible sat on the passenger seat, a youth leader notebook beside it. Random items that had meant something once, now just matter occupying space.

Later, his mother found him there, her face soft with concern. “Everyone’s heading to the fellowship hall,” she said. “The youth group’s doing a special memorial.”

Bret shook his head. “I can’t,” he said quietly. “Not anymore.”

“I know you’re hurting,” she started, but he cut her off.

“It’s not about hurt,” he said. “It’s about truth. And I can’t pretend anymore.”

He walked away from her, away from the church, away from the faith that had crumbled in a hospital room at 3 AM. Behind him, Amazing Grace drifted from the fellowship hall windows. But he had already lost that sweet sound, replacing it with the honest silence of a universe that simply was.

Chapter 6

The classroom was still, the last of Bret’s classmates filtering out as the echo of chairs scraping the floor faded into the hallway. Three days have passed since Alex’s funeral. Bret slumped in his chair, gripping the edge of the desk as though it might anchor him. The weight of his first days back at school pressed down on him—the whispered condolences, the awkward glances, the way people seemed unsure whether to mention Alex or pretend nothing had happened.

“Bret,” Mr. Jennings’ voice cut through the silence, gentle but probing. He stood a few feet away, arms crossed loosely, concern etched into his thoughtful expression. “You’ve been quiet since you came back. How are you holding up?”

Bret looked up, struggling to meet his teacher’s gaze. His heart still raced from his earlier outburst during class discussion—challenging the idea that everything happens for a reason. “I just,” he faltered, swallowing hard before continuing. “I can’t accept the answers everyone keeps giving me. About Alex. About God’s plan. None of it makes sense anymore.”

Mr. Jennings nodded and pulled a chair from a nearby desk, sitting down beside Bret. His calm demeanor felt grounding, a steady presence amid the storm of grief and doubt swirling in Bret’s chest. “Losing someone often makes us question everything we thought we knew. Have you been writing about it at all?”

Bret hesitated, then said, “A little. Mostly in my journal. Just… trying to understand why. Everyone at church keeps saying it’s part of God’s plan, that Alex is in a better place. But I was there. I watched him die. If God has a plan, why would it include that?”

“Those are valid questions, Bret. And you deserve better than pat answers and religious platitudes.”

“But questioning feels like…” Bret’s voice caught. “Like I’m betraying Alex. He believed so strongly, even at the end.”

“Or maybe,” Mr. Jennings suggested gently, “you’re honoring him by refusing to accept easy answers. By being honest about your doubts.”

Bret’s fingers unconsciously traced the edge of his desk, where Alex used to sit in their shared classes. The empty seat felt like an accusation. “I’ve been reading different things. Trying to make sense of it all. But everything I find just leads to more questions.”

Mr. Jennings reached into his bag and pulled out a small notepad, scribbling down a list of titles. “These books might help,” he said, tearing off the sheet and handing it to Bret. The titles stared back at him: The God Delusion, Letters to a Skeptic, Why I Left, Why I Stayed.

“Some of these aren’t exactly… Christian,” Bret observed, his voice uncertain.

“No,” Mr. Jennings agreed. “But they’re honest. And right now, I think that’s what you need—honest perspectives from people who’ve wrestled with these same questions. Some found their way back to faith. Others didn’t. But all of them faced their doubts head-on.”

Bret folded the paper carefully, like a map to unknown territory. “Last week at the funeral, Pastor Josh said Alex’s death was a reminder to trust God’s timing. But all I could think about was how many times we prayed for him to get better. How nothing changed.”

Mr. Jennings was quiet for a moment, his expression thoughtful. “How did that make you feel? Hearing those words at the funeral?”

“Angry,” Bret admitted, the word coming out sharper than he intended. “And confused. If God’s timing is perfect, why did Alex have to die? He was seventeen. He had plans, dreams. We were supposed to…” His voice broke. “We were going to lead the youth mission trip together this summer.”

“It’s okay to be angry, Bret,” Mr. Jennings said softly. “And it’s okay to question. Despite what some might tell you, doubt isn’t the enemy of faith, it’s often the beginning of a deeper understanding.”

Bret pulled out his journal, its pages already filled with questions and half-formed thoughts. “I’ve been writing about it. About Alex, about doubt, about everything. But it feels like I’m just going in circles.”

Mr. Jennings leaned forward, studying the journal. “May I?” he asked, gesturing to it.

Bret hesitated, then nodded, handing it over. Mr. Jennings flipped through a few pages; his expression serious.

“You have a strong voice here, Bret. These aren’t just questions—they’re the beginning of something bigger. Have you thought about turning this into a book?”

Bret blinked, caught off guard. “A book? I… I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

“Start with Alex,” Mr. Jennings suggested, handing the journal back. “Not just his death, but who he was. Your friendship. The conversations you shared. Then trace how losing him changed your perspective on faith.”

“But what if,” Bret paused, glancing at the door as though someone might be listening, “what if my questions lead somewhere I’m not supposed to go?”

Mr. Jennings’ expression softened. “There are no forbidden questions, Bret. Only forbidden answers. Those books I recommended? Start with them. Take notes. Compare your experiences. Writing isn’t just about finding answers; it’s about documenting the journey.”

“My parents would never understand,” Bret said quietly. “They think grief is testing my faith. That I just need to pray more, trust more.”

“Then write about that too,” Mr. Jennings urged. “The pressure to maintain faith in the face of loss. The conflict between what you’re expected to believe and what you feel. These are universal struggles, Bret. Your story could help others face similar questions.”

Bret stared at the list of books, then back at his journal. “I’ve been thinking about reaching out to my mom’s cousin, Bob. He left the church years ago. Maybe he could… help me figure this out.”

“That sounds like a good idea,” Mr. Jennings nodded. “Having someone who’s walked this path before can be invaluable.”

The afternoon sunlight slanted through the classroom windows, casting long shadows across the empty desks. Somewhere in the distance, a door slammed, reminding Bret that life at school went on, even if his world had stopped making sense.

“How do I even start?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. “It feels too big, too… raw.”

Mr. Jennings considered for a moment. “Start with a simple question: What would you tell Alex if you could talk to him now? Not what others expect you to say, but what you really feel.”

The question hit Bret hard. He opened his journal to a fresh page, a pen hovering over the paper. After a moment, he wrote: “I miss you. And I don’t know how to pray anymore.”

“That’s it,” Mr. Jennings said softly. “That’s your beginning. Raw honesty is more powerful than polished certainty.”

Bret stared at the words he’d written, feeling their weight. “What if the truth hurts people? My parents, Jenna, the youth group…”

“Truth often does hurt,” Mr. Jennings acknowledged. “But pretending hurts more in the long run. Write your truth, Bret. Whatever that turns out to be.”

As Bret gathered his things to leave, Mr. Jennings added, “And Bret? My door is always open if you need to talk. Sometimes the hardest part of questioning faith is feeling like you’re doing it alone.”

“Thanks,” Bret said, meaning it. He tucked the book list into his journal and headed for the door.

“One more thing,” Mr. Jennings called after him. “Those questions you’re asking? Alex asked them too. Remember that conversation you two had in class about the age of the universe? He was wrestling with the same things. Maybe writing this isn’t betraying him—maybe it’s finishing a conversation he started.”

The words followed Bret into the hallway, echoing in his mind as he walked to his car. The list of books felt heavy in his journal, like seeds of something that could either destroy his faith or help him build something new from its ashes.

──────

A week after his conversation with Mr. Jennings, Bret sat at his desk, staring at the blank document on his laptop screen. The cursor blinked steadily, like a heartbeat, mocking his inability to find words for the void inside him. Outside his window, the church steeple that had once guided him home now felt like an accusation against the night sky.

He minimized the empty document, revealing his desktop background—still that photo of Alex from last summer’s youth retreat, both grinning at the camera, Bibles in hand. He’d meant to change it but somehow couldn’t bring himself to erase one more piece of his friend.

The house was quiet except for the familiar sounds of his parents’ evening routine drifting up from downstairs—his mother’s soft hymns, his father’s measured footsteps. Their faith seemed untouched by Alex’s death, perhaps even strengthened by it. But for Bret, every prayer, every hymn, every well-meaning platitude about God’s plan felt like salt in an open wound.

His hands moved to his jacket, hanging on the back of his chair. From the pocket, he pulled out the crumpled paper Mr. Jennings had given him last week—the list of books about faith, doubt, and loss. He’d shoved it away that day, too raw to even consider it. But now, the questions felt too heavy to carry alone.

He smoothed the paper on his desk, Mr. Jennings’ neat handwriting stark against the white surface. The titles stared back at him: The God Delusion, When Faith Fails, Losing God, Finding Peace. Each one felt like a step into an unknown territory, yet somehow less frightening than the emptiness of pretending.

Turning back to his laptop, he opened the document again. The blank page waited, patient and judgmental. His fingers hovered over the keys, trembling slightly. How could he put words to this, this tangle of grief and doubt, of anger and longing? How could he explain that losing Alex hadn’t just taken his best friend, but had shattered the lens through which he viewed the entire world?

He began to type, then deleted. Typed again, deleted again. Finally, three words appeared on the screen:

“I miss you.”

He stared at them, his vision blurring. It wasn’t enough—wasn’t nearly enough—but it was true. And maybe that’s what Mr. Jennings had meant about writing this: start with what’s true, even if it’s just three words.

His phone buzzed on the desk, a text from Tommy about tomorrow’s youth group meeting. Another buzz—his mother, reminding him about Wednesday night service. A third, Jenna, still trying to reach out, to help him find his way back to faith.

Bret ignored them all, his fingers returning to the keyboard. Below those first three words, he added:

“And I don’t know how to pray anymore.”

The truth of it hit him like a physical force. In the week since he’d written those same words in Mr. Jennings’ classroom, they’d only grown heavier, more certain. He’d stood silent at the funeral while others sang “Amazing Grace,” and now, sitting alone with the blank page, he finally understood why: he wasn’t just grieving Alex. He was grieving the loss of every certainty he’d ever had.

He reached for Mr. Jennings’ list again, this time with purpose. Maybe he couldn’t pray anymore, but he could write. He could ask questions. He could search for his own answers in the vastness that had opened where his faith used to be.

His phone buzzed again. This time it was Bob, his mother’s cousin. The black sheep of the family, the one who’d walked away from faith years ago. Bret had always kept his distance, understanding instinctively that Bob represented something dangerous, questions that couldn’t be un-asked, doubts that couldn’t be un-thought.

The message was simple: “Heard about Alex. If you need someone to talk to who won’t try to explain it away… I’m here.”

Bret stared at the words, something shifting in his chest. Everyone else had offered prayers, Bible verses, promises of God’s plan. But Bob just offered a presence. Understanding. Space for the questions that had been choking him since that night in the hospital.

He turned back to his document, the cursor still blinking between “anymore” and empty space. The words came faster now:

“Everyone keeps telling me Alex is in a better place. That God needed another angel. That his death was part of some divine plan. But I was there. I watched the machines fail. I heard his mother’s screams. I saw the exact moment he stopped breathing. There was nothing divine about it. Nothing planned. Just the random cruelty of a universe that doesn’t care about our prayers.”

He stopped, his hands shaking. The words felt like betrayal, like sacrilege. But they also felt true—truer than anything he’d said at the funeral, truer than the prayers he couldn’t pray anymore.

His gaze drifted to his bookshelf, where his youth group Bible sat alongside his physics textbook. The contrast struck him suddenly as absurd; ancient stories of miracles next to equations that explained the actual mechanics of the universe. He’d tried so hard to reconcile them, to find God in the gaps between atoms and stars. But Alex’s death had shattered that fragile balance.

Taking a deep breath, he wrote:

“I need to understand why. Not why Alex died—science answers that. But why do we need to believe it means something. Why we can’t just admit that sometimes terrible things happen for no reason at all. Why does faith feel more like denial than comfort.”

A soft knock at his door made him jump. His mother’s voice, gentle but worried: “Honey? We’re heading to prayer meeting. Sure you won’t come?”

“Not tonight, Mom,” he called back, his voice steadier than he felt. “I’ve got some writing to do.”

He heard her sigh, then her footsteps retreating. A few minutes later, the front door closed, leaving him alone with the quiet and his questions.

Looking at what he’d written, Bret felt something shift inside him. The words weren’t elegant or profound, but they were honest. And maybe that’s what he needed right now—not answers or comfort, but simple, brutal honesty.

He opened a browser window and looked up Bob’s email address. With trembling fingers, he began to type:

“Dear Bob,

I don’t know if you really meant what you said about talking. But I’ve started writing about Alex, about doubts, about everything. And I think I need someone who understands what it’s like to walk away from certainty into questions…”

His finger hovered over the send button. Behind him, the church steeple cast its shadow across his desk, across the books Mr. Jennings had recommended, across the blank pages waiting to be filled. He took a deep breath and clicked ‘send,’ then turned back to his document. But before he could continue writing, his mind drifted back to where this journey began—to that afternoon with Mr. Jennings…

Chapter 7

Two days after sending that first tentative email to Bob, Bret found himself staring at his laptop again. The soft glow illuminated his darkened room as he re-read Bob’s response:

“Writing about loss is like mapping unexplored territory. You’ll get lost sometimes. That’s part of the journey. Start with what you know is true, even if it hurts.”

The words resonated differently now, days and days after receiving Mr. Jennings’ book list. Bret’s fingers hovered over the keyboard as the suggestion echoed in his mind: “Start with Alex.” But which Alex? The one everyone at church talked about—the perfect Christian youth leader? Or the real Alex, who had whispered his own doubts during late-night conversations about stars and time and the age of the universe?

He pulled the book list from under his Bible, spreading it flat on his desk. Some titles promised answers, others embraced questions. He opened a browser tab, hovering over the “Buy Now” button for The God Delusion. His cursor blinked, much like the one in his document—both waiting for decisions he wasn’t sure he was ready to make.

The house creaked around him, settling into its nighttime quiet. Through his window, the church steeple was still visible, lit up against the dark sky. A week ago, he had stood beneath that steeple at Alex’s funeral, listening to Pastor Josh talk about God’s perfect timing. The memory made his stomach twist.

Bret opened his journal—not the new one Mr. Jennings had suggested, but his old one, the one filled with desperate prayers during Alex’s last days. He flipped through the pages until he found what he was looking for: their last real conversation before the accident. They had been discussing the age of the universe, the physics of stars, the possibility that faith and science might not be enemies after all.

“We were both searching,” he typed into the blank document. “Just in different directions.”

The words appeared stark against the white background. He kept going:

“Alex looked at the stars and saw God’s fingerprints. I looked at the same stars and saw nuclear fusion, gravity, the laws of physics. But we could talk about it. Really talk. Not like at youth group where questions were just things to be answered and filed away. With Alex, questions were…”

He paused, searching for the right words.

“…sacred in their own way.”

His phone buzzed—a text from his mother downstairs: “Everything okay up there? Haven’t heard you moving around.”

“Just doing some writing,” he texted back. Another half-truth to add to the growing list. How many times since the funeral had he pretended to be praying when he was really writing, questioning, doubting?

He turned back to his laptop, to the growing paragraph that felt like both confession and commemoration. Mr. Jennings was right—he needed to write about Alex before the hospital, before everything changed. But as he typed, he realized something else was happening. Each memory of their shared questions, their late-night discussions, their mutual wrestling with doubt… it was like building a case. Not just against God, but against the certainty that had shattered the moment those hospital monitors went silent.

The browser tab with the book list still waited. Bret remembered the last conversation he had with Alex about science and faith. “Maybe we’re both right,” Alex had said. “Maybe God works through physics and evolution and all that stuff.” Now, weeks after burying his friend, those words felt like permission. This time, Bret didn’t hesitate. He added several titles to his cart—not just Dawkins, but Lewis too. The apologetics along with the atheism. He needed to understand both sides now, to trace the path that had led him here.

“What are you writing about?”

His mother’s voice from the doorway made him jump. He quickly minimized the browser window but left the document open. Let her see he was actually writing. Let her think it was just normal grief, not the unraveling of everything she’d raised him to believe.

“Just… trying to remember some things,” he said, not turning around. “About Alex. Mr. Jennings thought it might help.”

She moved into the room, her presence bringing with it the faint scent of her evening coffee and something else concern, maybe, or hope. “That’s good, honey. Writing can be very healing. The pastor’s wife gave me a grief journal after the funeral. Maybe we could write together?”

Bret nodded, his eyes fixed on the screen, on words that meant something so different from what she imagined. She placed a hand on his shoulder, and he forced himself not to stiffen.

“Why don’t you come down for a while? Your father’s making hot chocolate. We could read some Psalms together—they’ve always helped me in times of grief. Pastor Josh recommended some specific verses about loss.”

The invitation hung in the air, heavy with everything she couldn’t understand. A week ago, he might have accepted, might have found comfort in the familiar ritual. But now, after watching his best friend die despite every prayer, those verses felt like empty promises.

“Thanks, Mom, but I think I need to keep writing while it’s coming.” His voice sounded strange to his own ears—gentle but firm, like closing a door without slamming it.

She hesitated, then squeezed his shoulder. “Okay. Don’t stay up too late. And remember, honey, Alex would want you to stay strong in your faith.”

The words hit him like a physical blow. Would he? Would Alex want him to keep pretending? Or would he understand these questions, these doubts that had started long before the accident?

After she left, Bret returned to his cart of books, his finger hovering over “Purchase.” These weren’t just books—they were a decision. A commitment to following his questions wherever they led, even if the path took him far from the comfort of his mother’s Psalms and Pastor Josh’s certainties.

He clicked “Purchase,” then opened a new email to Bob:

“I’ve been thinking about what you said about being honest with myself. Alex’s death changed everything—not just because I lost my best friend, but because it broke something in my faith that I think was already cracking. Mr. Jennings suggested I write about it all. Would you be willing to help me figure out how? Not just what happened in the hospital, but everything that led to it? Everything that’s happened since. I need someone who understands what it’s like to question everything you’ve ever believed.”

His cursor hovered over “Send.” In the reflection of his dark screen, he could see the NASA poster behind him, the same one he and Alex had spent hours studying, debating whether the vastness of space proved or disproved God’s existence. Now its red Martian landscape seemed like a testament to something else—the cold, beautiful indifference of a universe that operated on physics, not prayer.

──────

The Boaz Public Library felt different today, its usual quiet now charged with anticipation. Bret sat in one of the study rooms, surrounded by tall windows that let in the afternoon light. His journal lay open on the table, along with the first of Mr. Jennings’ recommended books. He’d barely slept after purchasing those books online, and now, waiting for his mother’s cousin to arrive, his stomach churned with equal parts, hope and anxiety.

The door opened quietly, and Bob stepped in. He looked exactly as Bret remembered from family gatherings—salt-and-pepper hair, kind eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses, an air of calm thoughtfulness that had always set him apart. But today, seeing him in this context felt different.

“Bret,” Bob said warmly, setting his leather messenger bag on the table. “Thanks for reaching out. Your email… it brought back some memories.”

“Thanks for coming,” Bret replied, his voice barely above a whisper. Even here, in the library’s privacy, old habits of secrecy died hard. “I wasn’t sure if—”

“If I’d understand?” Bob smiled gently. “Believe me, I do. Losing someone you love has a way of making you question everything. Especially when you’re already starting to doubt.”

Bret’s fingers traced the edge of his journal. “At the funeral, everyone kept saying it was God’s plan. That Alex was in a better place. But…” His voice caught. “I was there. In the hospital. I watched the monitors. I heard his last breath. There was nothing divine about it. Just… machines and biology and…” He trailed off, the memory still too raw.

Bob nodded, his expression soft but unflinching. “Tell me about the writing you’ve started. Your email mentioned Mr. Jennings suggested it?”

“Yeah,” Bret pulled his journal closer. “He thought… he said I should write about Alex. Not just about losing him, but about who he was. About our conversations, our questions.”

“Questions?” Bob leaned forward slightly.

“We used to talk about science, about the age of the universe, evolution—things we couldn’t really discuss at church.” Bret’s voice grew stronger. “Alex… he tried to reconcile it all. Said maybe God worked through science. But I kept seeing contradictions everywhere I looked.”

Bob reached into his bag and pulled out a worn notebook. “When I first started questioning my faith, I did something similar. Writing helped me sort through the chaos. May I?” He gestured to Bret’s journal.

Bret hesitated, then slid it across the table. Bob opened it carefully, his eyes scanning the recent entries. His expression remained neutral, but something flickered in his eyes, recognition, perhaps.

“You write well,” he said finally. “There’s a rawness here, an honesty that’s powerful. Have you shown this to anyone else?”

“Just Mr. Jennings. A few pages.” Bret shifted in his chair. “Mom thinks I’m just journaling about grief. She keeps trying to get me to read Psalms with her, to come to prayer group. But every time I try to pray now, all I can think about is how many prayers went unanswered in that hospital room.”

Bob closed the journal and slid it back. “Your mom means well. They all do. But sometimes the answers people offer cause more harm than the questions they’re trying to silence.”

“Like when Pastor Josh said at the funeral that Alex’s death should strengthen our faith?” Bret’s voice cracked with sudden anger. “How does watching your best friend die make you trust God more?”

Bob was quiet for a moment, letting Bret’s words settle in the room. “Tell me something about Alex that no one mentioned at the funeral.”

Bret looked up, caught off guard by the question. “What?”

“Something real. Not the ‘perfect Christian youth leader’ they talked about, but your friend. The one who asked questions with you.”

Bret’s throat tightened, but the words came anyway. “Two weeks before the accident, we were looking at the Mars rover photos on my laptop. Alex said something I can’t forget. He said, ‘What if the universe is too big for our answers?’ Not just science answers, but religious ones too. Like maybe we were all just guessing, trying to make sense of something too vast to understand.”

“Sounds like Alex was wrestling with his own questions,” Bob observed.

“Yeah. But he… he kept his faith somehow. Even at the end.” Bret’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I don’t know how to do that anymore.”

Bob leaned forward; his voice gentle but firm. “Maybe you don’t have to. Maybe part of honoring Alex’s memory is being as honest about your doubts as he was about his faith.”

“But how do I even start?” Bret asked, gesturing to his journal and the stack of books. “Everything feels tangled up—Alex’s death, my doubts, all these questions about science and faith.”

Bob pulled a fresh sheet of paper from his bag. “Let’s start here. Writing isn’t just about recording thoughts—it’s about discovering them.” He drew a line down the middle of the page. “On one side, write what you know. Not what you believe, not what you’ve been taught—what you know. On the other, write what you’re questioning.”

Bret took the pen, his hand hovering over the paper. “What I know…” He began writing:

I know Alex died despite our prayers

I know the universe is billions of years old

I know evolution is supported by evidence

I know I can’t pretend anymore

His hand moved to the other column:

Why do good people suffer?

Why does God hide?

How can the Bible be perfect with so many contradictions?

What if there is no divine plan?

“This,” Bob said, tapping the page, “is where your book begins. Not with answers, but with honest questions. Write about Alex, yes, but also write about your journey. About how losing him forced you to confront doubts you’d been avoiding.”

Bret stared at the lists, feeling something shift inside him. “I’ve been writing like I’m trying to convince myself, one way or the other. But maybe… maybe the journey is the story.”

“Exactly.” Bob smiled. “And I’ll help you tell it, if you want. Not to push you toward any particular conclusion, but to help you find your voice.”

As they packed up their things, Bret felt lighter somehow. The grief was still there, the questions still burned, but having someone who understood, who didn’t try to silence his doubts with scripture… it made the path ahead feel less lonely.

“Same time next week?” Bob asked, shouldering his bag.

Bret nodded, clutching his journal. “Thanks, Bob. For… understanding.”

“Just remember,” Bob said at the door, “this journey? It’s yours. Not your parents’, not your church’s, not even mine. Write your truth, Bret, wherever it leads.”

Walking to his car, Bret felt the afternoon sun warm on his face. The church steeple was visible in the distance, a familiar landmark that now felt like a question mark on the horizon. He had more writing to do tonight, more questions to explore. But for the first time since Alex’s death, the questions didn’t feel like a betrayal—they felt like a tribute to the friend who had taught him it was okay to wonder.

Chapter 8

The church parking lot was half-empty when Bret arrived, unusual for a Wednesday night. He sat in his car, engine off, watching familiar faces drift into the building. The youth group kids moved in clusters, their laughter carrying across the asphalt. Two weeks had passed since Alex’s funeral, but tonight would be his first time back at Fusion.

His journal lay on the passenger seat, filled with new questions and observations from his meetings with Bob. Next to it, Dawkins’ The God Delusion peeked out of his backpack. He pushed the book deeper into the bag, not ready for that conversation. Not yet.

The evening air felt heavy as he climbed out of his car, weighed with late summer humidity and the burden of return. Each step toward the church entrance seemed to require more effort than the last. Through the windows, he could see the youth room lights already on, shadows moving inside.

Pastor Josh stood at the door, greeting people as they entered. His smile faltered slightly when he saw Bret. “Welcome back,” he said, his tone careful. “We’ve missed you at morning prayer group.”

“Thanks,” Bret managed, slipping past into the familiar corridor that led to the youth room. The walls were lined with photos from past mission trips and youth events. Alex’s face appeared in many of them, his smile frozen in time.

Inside the youth room, conversations quieted as Bret entered. He felt the weight of stares, saw the quick glances and whispered exchanges. The usual excited greetings were replaced with awkward nods and averted eyes. He found an empty chair near the back, away from his old spot at the front where he used to help lead discussions.

Sarah, one of the regular youth leaders, was setting up for worship. “Tonight, we’re talking about trusting God’s plan,” she announced, her voice too bright. “Even when we don’t understand it.”

Bret’s stomach clenched. He opened his journal, needing something to focus on besides the obvious message behind tonight’s topic. A shadow fell across his page.

“Hey,” Jenna said softly, sitting beside him. “I’m glad you came back.”

Before he could respond, Pastor Josh called the group to order. “Let’s start with prayer. Bret, would you like to lead us?”

The request hung in the air like a test. Once, this would have been natural, expected. Now it felt like a trap. “I… I’d rather not,” Bret said, his voice steady despite his racing heart.

A murmur rippled through the room. Pastor Josh’s smile tightened slightly. “Of course. Tommy, why don’t you lead?”

As Tommy prayed, Bret kept his head bowed but his eyes open, studying the pattern in the carpet. The words washed over him—thanks for God’s faithfulness, for His perfect plan, for carrying them through their grief.

“And Lord,” Tommy added, “we pray for those struggling with doubt. Help them remember Your truth…”

Bret’s pen pressed harder into his journal page.

After the prayer, Pastor Josh launched into his lesson. “Faith means trusting God even when we don’t have all the answers. Job didn’t understand why he suffered, but he never lost his faith.”

“But Job questioned God,” Bret found himself saying. The room went silent. “He demanded answers. He wasn’t just… blindly accepting everything.”

Pastor Josh’s expression shifted from surprise to concern. “Job questioned from a place of faith, Bret. Not doubt.”

“What’s the difference?” The words came out before Bret could stop them. “Why is it okay to ask if we already accept the answers we’re supposed to find?”

“Bret,” Pastor Josh’s voice carried a warning note. “This isn’t the time…”

“When is the time?” Bret’s voice rose slightly. “Alex and I used to talk about this stuff all the time. About science, about evolution, about how prayer works, or doesn’t. He had questions too. But now everyone acts like he was this perfect example of unquestioning faith.”

The silence in the room grew heavier. Jenna touched his arm. “Bret, please—”

He pulled away, standing. “You all want to pretend that faith fixes everything. That if we just pray hard enough, believe hard enough, it all makes sense. But I was there. I watched Alex die. Where was God’s perfect plan then?”

“That’s enough.” Pastor Josh’s voice cut through the room. “Bret, I think you need to step outside. Cool off.”

Bret looked around the room. Some faces showed shock, others pity. A few nodded in agreement with Pastor Josh. But in the back, he caught Madison’s eye. She gave him a slight nod, something like respect in her expression.

“You’re right,” Bret said, gathering his things. “I do need to step outside. But not to cool off. To think. To question. To stop pretending.”

He walked out, his steps echoing in the sudden quiet. Behind him, he heard Pastor Josh beginning to pray, asking God to “help those struggling with grief to find their way back to faith.”

In the parking lot, the evening air felt cleaner somehow. Bret leaned against his car, letting out a long breath. His phone buzzed—a text from Madison: “That was brave. Want to talk?”

He looked back at the church, at the lighted windows where life went on as usual, where questions were treated as problems to be solved rather than journeys to be taken. For the first time since Alex’s death, he felt something close to peace. Not because he had answers, but because he’d finally stopped pretending to have them.

Starting his car, he texted Madison back: “Thanks. And yes. I think it’s time to talk about what comes next.”

──────

The digital clock on Bret’s desk read 1:43 AM. He sat in the pool of his desk lamp’s light, surrounded by the aftermath of the church confrontation—his journal open, phone buzzing with concerned messages from youth group members, and his laptop displaying a blank document that somehow needed to become his story.

After leaving Fusion, he’d driven around Boaz for what seemed like hours, past familiar landmarks now shadowed with memory: the basketball court where he and Alex had talked about stars and certainty, the diner where they’d debated evolution over midnight pancakes, the hospital where all their prayers had dissolved into machine beeps and final breaths.

Now, following Bob’s suggestion to “write it all raw,” Bret placed his fingers on the keyboard and began:

“The last time I prayed and meant it was in the hospital. Third floor ICU, 2:47 AM. The machines were making sounds I didn’t understand, but I understood enough to know they weren’t good sounds. I bargained with God. Promised everything. The monitors kept beeping their countdown anyway.”

He stopped, his throat tight. This wasn’t the kind of grief writing his mother had encouraged—not journal entries about precious memories or comforting scriptures. This was something else, something that felt dangerous but necessary.

He started a new paragraph:

“Tonight, at church, they talked about Job’s faith. About trusting God’s plan. But I was there in that hospital room. I watched the plan unfold in blood pressure readings and dropping oxygen levels. I listened to my best friend try to form words around his breathing tube. And his last coherent sentence wasn’t about God’s plan or heaven or faith. He said, ‘The stars, Bret. Remember what we said about the stars.'”

Bret pushed back from his desk, wiping his eyes. He hadn’t told anyone about those final words, not even in his journal. Everyone wanted Alex’s last moments to be filled with profound faith, not cryptic references to their late-night debates about cosmic time and human insignificance.

He turned to a fresh page:

“What they don’t tell you about losing faith is that it happens in reverse. You don’t start with the big questions about God’s existence. You start with smaller ones: Why didn’t this prayer work? Why does theology crumble under scientific scrutiny? Why do people pretend to understand things they can’t possibly understand?

Then your best friend dies.

And suddenly the questions aren’t academic anymore. They’re bleeding open in a hospital room at 3 AM, where all your faith, all your prayers, all your promises to God slam into the cold wall of reality—cellular death doesn’t care about devotion. Oxygen levels don’t respond to prayer. The universe runs on physics, not faith.”

His phone buzzed again—Jenna. He ignored it, turning back to his writing:

“What Alex and I never told anyone: We spent the summer before his accident reading physics books. Not just the sanitized ones approved by church, but real ones. Books about deep time and evolution and the birth of stars. He’d point to passages about quantum mechanics and say, ‘See? God could work through this.’ I’d counter with evidence for natural selection, and he’d say, ‘Maybe that’s how God does it.’”

We thought we were so clever, straddling that line between faith and science. But here’s what I realize now: Those conversations weren’t really about physics. They were about permission to question, to doubt, to wonder if the universe was bigger than our Sunday School answers.”

Bret stood, pacing his room. He ignored the church steeple outside his window. He returned to his desk, the words coming faster now:

“Tonight at youth group, they wanted me to pray like nothing had changed. Like watching your best friend die doesn’t change everything. Like understanding the actual age of the universe doesn’t make you question every other ‘truth’ you’ve been taught. They wanted me to be the same Bret who led worship and quoted scripture and never doubted.

But that Bret died in the hospital too. He flatlined somewhere between ‘God has a plan’ and the moment Alex’s heart monitor went silent.”

His hands were shaking, but he kept typing:

“What I couldn’t say at church tonight: Faith isn’t just about believing. It’s about belonging. It’s potlucks and prayer meetings and inside jokes about sword drills. It’s youth camp and mission trips and feeling like you’re part of something bigger than yourself. Losing faith isn’t just losing beliefs, it’s losing your place in that world.

But what if staying means living a lie? What if honoring Alex’s memory means being as honest about my doubts as he was about his faith?”

The night deepened around him as he wrote the hardest part:

“What I miss most about Alex isn’t the faith we shared—it’s the questions. The way he could hold both doubt and belief in his hands and say, ‘maybe both are true.’ The way he looked at Mars rover photos and quoted Psalms in the same breath. The way he died still believing, while I lived and lost my faith.

“The last thing he said about the stars—I think I understand it now. We’d been talking about light-years, about how the starlight we see is ancient, millions of years old. ‘That’s what faith might be,’ he said. ‘Light reaching us from something we can’t see directly. But the light itself, the evidence of its journey—that’s real.’

“But here’s what I’ve learned since watching him die: Sometimes the light shows us something different than what we wanted to see. Sometimes the evidence leads away from faith instead of toward it. And maybe that’s okay. Maybe the truth honors Alex more than pretending ever could.”

Bret sat back, exhausted but somehow lighter. He saved the document, naming it “First Chapter.” The sun would be up soon, and with it would come his mother’s questions about youth group, Jenna’s texts, Pastor Josh’s concern. But for now, in the quiet of his room, he had done what felt impossible, he had written his truth.

He opened his journal one last time that night, adding a final entry:

“Alex, I hope you’ll understand. I’m not betraying our friendship by questioning everything. I’m honoring it by being as honest about my doubts as you were about your faith. Maybe that’s what you mean about the stars. Maybe that’s the real light we were supposed to follow.”

Outside his window, the first hint of dawn began to pale the sky. For the first time since the funeral, Bret felt something close to peace—not the peace that passes understanding, but the peace that comes from finally understanding yourself.

Chapter 9

The afternoon light filtered through the coffee shop windows, turning the steam from Bret’s untouched cup into ghostly swirls. Bob had arranged this meeting, saying only that Luke was someone who might understand Bret’s journey. Now, watching the former pastor approach his table, Bret felt his pulse quicken.

Luke looked nothing like Bret had imagined. No dramatic signs of his departure from faith—just a man in his early forties wearing jeans and a button-down shirt, his kind eyes showing hints of his own battles. On the table in front of him, he set a worn copy of one of the books from Mr. Jennings’ list.

“You must be Bret,” Luke said, sliding into the seat across from him. “Bob told me a bit about what you’re going through. Said you’ve been reading some interesting books.”

“Thanks for meeting me,” Bret managed. “Bob said you… that you used to be…”

“A pastor?” Luke smiled gently. “For twelve years. Southern Baptist. Now I teach comparative religion at the community college. And yes” he tapped the book he’d brought “I’ve read everything on that list Mr. Jennings gave you. Some of them multiple times.”

“What happened?” Bret asked, then quickly added, “If you don’t mind talking about it.”

Luke stirred his coffee thoughtfully. “Similar to you, actually. Lost someone I loved. Started asking questions. Found that the answers I’d been giving others didn’t satisfy my own doubts anymore.” He paused. “Though my questions started earlier. Teaching Genesis to college freshmen has a way of making you really examine what you believe.”

“How did you handle it? The questions?”

“Not well, at first,” Luke admitted. “I tried to pray harder, study more apologetics, find ways to make it all fit. You know what finally broke me? A student asked why God would create light before the sun in Genesis 1, but then make the sun before light in Genesis 2. I gave the standard answer about different literary forms, different purposes. But later that night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking: why am I working so hard to defend contradictions? What am I afraid of?”

“That’s it exactly.” Bret leaned forward. “Everyone at church keeps saying I’m just struggling with grief, that I need to trust God more. But Alex’s death… it didn’t create my doubts. It just made them impossible to ignore.”

“Tell me about Alex,” Luke said. “Not the church version. The real person.”

“He was… complicated.” Bret traced the rim of his coffee cup. “Everyone at church talks about him like he was this perfect Christian, but he had questions too. We used to stay up late talking about science, evolution, and the age of the universe. He tried to find ways to make it all fit with faith. I couldn’t.”

“And now?”

“Now I can’t stop seeing the contradictions. In the Bible, in theology, in everything I was taught to believe. But it’s more than that. It’s about honesty. Every time I try to pray now, it feels like lying.” Bret hesitated, then asked, “Do you remember the last time you prayed? Really prayed?”

Luke nodded slowly. “It was at my sister’s funeral. She was twenty-six, died of cancer. I stood at the pulpit, expected to offer comfort, to remind everyone about God’s plan. Instead, I found myself thinking about cellular mutation rates, about the actual biological process that killed her. The words of prayer came out, but they felt hollow. That’s when I knew—I’d been performing faith for a long time, not living it.”

“How did you tell people? Your congregation?”

“One Sunday, I just couldn’t do it anymore. Stood up to preach and instead told them I had to step down. That I couldn’t keep pretending. Some were angry. Others tried to ‘fix’ me. But a few,” Luke’s eyes softened at the memory, “a few said they’d been wrestling with the same questions.”

“Like what?”

Luke pulled a small notebook from his bag. “I started keeping a list. Why does prayer seem to work randomly? Why would a loving God create a system where most people end up in hell? Why do we have to work so hard to explain away scientific evidence? Why does God feel more distant the harder you look for him?”

Bret’s throat tightened. These were his questions, almost word for word.

“But what about meaning?” he asked, voicing the fear that had been haunting him. “Purpose? Everyone says without God, life has no point.”

Luke’s eyes crinkled with understanding. “You know what I’ve found teaching comparative religion? Every culture, every generation has tried to impose cosmic meaning on existence. But meaning doesn’t have to be imposed from above. We create it through our choices, our relationships, our impact on others. Sometimes that’s more meaningful than cosmic purpose.”

“How?”

“Last semester, I had a student, raised strict Baptist like you. She was studying evolutionary biology. Came to my office in tears, thinking she had to choose between science and meaning. Know what I told her? That understanding how life actually evolved, how we’re connected to every living thing, how we beat astronomical odds to exist at all—that can be more meaningful than believing we’re the center of creation.”

“What happened to her?”

“She’s doing graduate work in paleontology now. Found her meaning in uncovering the real story of life on Earth.” Luke smiled. “And she still volunteers at a homeless shelter, still works to make the world better. Turns out you don’t need divine command to care about others.”

“The youth group kids keep texting me,” Bret said quietly. “Asking me to come back. Saying they’re praying for me. But after what happened last week…”

“Bob mentioned the confrontation. How are you feeling about that?”

“Lighter. Scared. But mostly… relieved. I’ve been writing about it all. About Alex, about doubt, about everything.”

“Good. Writing helps. I filled journals during my transition. Still do.” Luke reached into his bag again, pulling out a book. “Here’s something else that might help. It’s called Finding Ground: Life After Faith. Personal stories from people who’ve made this journey. Including mine—chapter three.”

Bret took the book, its worn cover suggesting multiple readings. “Does it get easier?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“The doubt? No. But living honestly? Yes. There’s freedom in following the evidence where it leads, in not having to defend the indefensible anymore.”

“But how do you handle family? Community? I feel like I’m losing everything.”

“You’re not losing everything,” Luke said gently. “You’re losing one lens through which to view everything. It’s disorienting at first. But gradually, you start seeing things more clearly. The universe becomes more amazing, not less. Love becomes more precious because it’s not mandated. Morality becomes more meaningful because you choose it, not because you’re avoiding punishment.”

“And the loneliness?”

“That’s why we’re here.” Luke gestured between them. “There are more of us than you think. Former believers who found different answers. Who realized that questioning isn’t weakness—it’s intellectual honesty.”

They talked for another hour. Luke shared stories from his classroom—students wrestling with evolution and faith, finding their way to new understandings. He talked about building community outside church, about finding wonder in the natural world, about the unexpected peace that came with accepting uncertainty.

“The hardest part for me,” Luke admitted, “was letting go of having all the answers. Pastors are supposed to know everything, you know? Learning to say ‘I don’t know’ was terrifying at first. Now it’s liberating.”

As they stood to leave, Luke handed Bret a card. “My number’s on there. Call anytime. And here,” he pulled out a flash drive,”some articles and resources that helped me. Including my own journal entries from that first year. Sometimes it helps to know you’re not crazy, not alone.”

“Thanks,” Bret said, meaning more than he could express. “For everything.”

“One more thing,” Luke called as Bret turned to go. “That book you’re writing? The one Bob mentioned? Keep going. Your story matters. Someone else out there is asking these same questions, feeling just as alone as you did.”

Walking to his car, Bret felt lighter somehow. Ahead lay more questions, more challenges, more difficult conversations with family and friends. But for the first time, he could see a path forward, one that didn’t require him to choose between honesty and hope.

The sun was setting as he drove home, painting the sky in colors that once spoke to him of God’s artistry. Now they spoke of light wavelengths, atmospheric physics, and the incredible fact that humans had evolved the ability to perceive beauty at all. Different answers, but the wonder remained.

He thought of Alex, of their late-night conversations about stars and faith. Maybe this was how their dialogue would continue—not through prayer or preserved belief, but through honest questions and the courage to follow them wherever they lead.

Chapter 10

Evening sunlight slanted through the Fusion meeting room windows as Bret set up chairs, each metal scrape echoing in the empty space. Two weeks had passed since his conversation with Luke, and tonight felt different. Dawkins’ words about the grandeur of a universe without divine guidance echoed in his mind as he arranged the familiar circle. In his bag, Finding Ground: Life After Faith sat dog-eared and highlighted, Luke’s chapter especially worn from multiple readings.

Pastor Josh entered, Bible tucked under his arm. “Bret. Wasn’t sure you’d be back.”

“Had some things I needed to sort out,” Bret said, straightening from his task. The cross pendant that had once felt like a comfort now sat heavy in his pocket – not thrown away but no longer worn. “Some reading I needed to do. Some conversations I needed to have.”

“With Bob, I heard.” Pastor Josh’s tone was careful. “Your mother mentioned he’s been… helping you process things.”

“Among others.” Bret finished arranging the last row of chairs. “It’s helped, talking to people who’ve asked these questions before me. Who’ve found honest answers, even when they’re not the ones we’re supposed to find.”

“Questions are natural, Bret. Especially after losing someone. But we must be careful about where we look for answers. Not everyone who claims to have truth—”

“That’s just it,” Bret interrupted, but without the anger that would have colored this conversation weeks ago. “I’m not looking for answers anymore. I’m trying to be honest about the questions themselves. About what the evidence actually shows.”

Youth group members began filtering in, their conversations quieting as they sensed the tension. Jenna stood in the doorway, her silver cross necklace – his gift from what felt like a lifetime ago – catching the evening light. Their eyes met briefly, and he saw in hers the same pain he’d seen in his mother’s: the desperate need to bring him back to certainty.

Tommy slipped into his usual front-row seat; notebook already open. The sight stirred something in Bret’s memory – all those questions about evolution and carbon dating that he’d once dismissed, that Alex had tried to answer more honestly.

“Maybe we should discuss this privately,” Pastor Josh suggested, glancing at the growing crowd of students.

“Why?” Bret’s voice wasn’t angry, just tired of the pretense. “So the others don’t hear their youth leader asking real questions? Like why prayer works randomly, if at all? Or why the Bible has two different creation accounts? Or why an all-powerful God would use evolution – which requires death and suffering – to create life?”

The questions hung in the air, each one pulled from his recent reading, from late-night studies that had replaced his prayer time.

“That’s not fair,” Jenna said, stepping forward. “Faith requires trust. You taught us that yourself.”

“Did I?” Bret met her gaze. “Or was I just repeating what I’d been taught? What if real trust means being honest about our doubts?”

He pulled his journal from his bag – not his old devotional one, but the new one Bob had given him. “I’ve been reading, Jenna. Not just the Bible. Books about science, about the history of religion, about how humans created gods to explain what they didn’t understand. Things that explain the universe without needing God.”

Pastor Josh’s expression tightened. “Bret, grief can make us vulnerable to—”

“This isn’t about grief,” Bret interrupted, but gently. Luke had taught him the value of staying calm, of letting truth speak for itself. “Or it’s not just about grief. Alex’s death didn’t create my doubts. It just made them impossible to ignore. Like the fact that we’re made of elements forged in dying stars billions of years ago. That’s more amazing than any creation myth, but we’re too afraid to embrace it.”

“What kind of doubts?” Tommy asked, his pen hovering over his notebook. The genuine curiosity in his voice reminded Bret of his own early questions.

“Real ones,” Bret said. “Like why prayer doesn’t work consistently – we prayed for Alex, hundreds of us, but biology and physics didn’t care. Why the Bible contradicts itself – not just in details, but in fundamental things like when humans were created, how long creation took, whether suffering existed before sin. Why a good God would create a system where most people end up condemned.”

“These are age-old questions, Bret,” Pastor Josh said. “Scholars and theologians—”

“Have given answers that don’t hold up,” Bret finished. “I’ve read them. Augustine, Lewis, all the modern apologists. And their answers keep changing as science reveals more truth. We used to say the Earth was 6,000 years old until geology proved otherwise. Then suddenly those days in Genesis became metaphorical. We’re always retreating, reinterpreting, trying to make ancient myths fit reality.”

The room had grown fuller, more youth group members drifting in, sensing something important happening. Bret saw familiar faces from summer camp, from mission trips, from countless prayer meetings. Some looked uncomfortable, others interested, a few nodding slightly.

“Bret,” Pastor Josh’s voice softened. “We understand you’re hurting. Losing Alex…”

“Stop using Alex to dismiss my questions!” The words came out sharper than he intended. Bret took a breath, remembered Luke’s advice about staying focused on truth rather than emotion. “Alex had doubts too. We talked about evolution, about the age of the universe, about all the things that didn’t make sense. But everyone wants to rewrite him as this perfect believer who never questioned anything.”

Silence fell. Even Pastor Josh seemed caught off guard by this revelation.

“I remember,” Tommy said quietly. “Alex helped me with my biology homework once. When I asked about evolution, he didn’t just quote Genesis. He said maybe science was showing us how things really worked.”

Several heads nodded. It seemed Alex had similar conversations with others.

“But he kept his faith,” Jenna said, moving closer. “Despite his questions. Despite his doubts.” Her voice caught. “Like you used to.”

“Yes, he did,” Bret acknowledged, meeting her eyes. “And I respect that. But I can’t do the same. I can’t pretend to believe things that don’t make sense anymore. I can’t pray to a God I’m not sure exists. I can’t tell these kids to trust without questioning when all my questions lead away from faith.”

“Then maybe,” Pastor Josh said carefully, “you shouldn’t be here.”

The words hung in the air, heavy but not final. Bret thought of what Bob had said about institutional resistance to questions, about how churches often pushed doubters to protect others’ certainty.

“Maybe I shouldn’t,” Bret agreed. “At least not as a leader. But I’m not here to lead anymore. I’m here because these questions matter. Because maybe someone else is wrestling with them too. Because truth is more important than comfort.”

He looked around the room at familiar faces, some shocked, some sad, some thoughtful. “Remember this moment. Not as someone losing faith, but as someone choosing honesty. Even when it’s hard. Even when it costs something.”

“Nobody’s rejecting you, Bret,” Pastor Josh insisted. “We just want to help you find your way back to faith.”

“What if the path forward isn’t back?” Bret asked, thinking of Luke’s journey, of Bob’s encouragement to follow truth wherever it led. “What if God, if he exists, prefers honest doubt to dishonest faith?”

He gathered his bag, but didn’t rush. This wasn’t a dramatic exit or a final goodbye. It was just another step in a longer journey.

“Some of us understand,” Tommy said softly, almost to himself. “Some of us have questions too.”

Pastor Josh began to pray about protection from doubt, but several youth group members kept their eyes open, watching Bret. Tommy was writing furiously in his notebook. Jenna stood frozen, tears tracking silently down her cheeks.

“Bret,” she called as he reached the door. “Is this really what Alex would want?”

He turned back, seeing not just Jenna but their whole shared history—summer camps, mission trips, prayer meetings, first love built on shared faith. “Alex wanted truth,” he said gently. “Even when it was hard. That’s what I’m trying to honor.”

Outside, the evening air felt clean, free from the weight of pretense. His phone buzzed—a text from Luke: “How’d it go?”

“Harder than expected,” Bret typed. “And easier. No going back now.”

Luke replied, “Forward is better than stuck.”

Another text lit up his screen, this one from Bob: “Remember, questioning takes more courage than accepting. You okay?”

“Yeah,” Bret wrote back, “for the first time in a long time, I think I am.”

He looked back at the church windows, at the life continuing inside. He didn’t know if he’d return next week. Didn’t know if they’d welcome him if he did. But for the first time, that uncertainty didn’t feel like failure. It felt like the price of truth, and he was finally ready to pay it.

As he walked to his car, Tommy burst through the church doors. “Bret, wait!”

Bret turned, saw the younger boy clutching his notebook. “Yeah?”

“Those books you mentioned. The ones about science and religion. Could you… could you maybe make me a list?”

Bret smiled, remembering how his own journey had started with Mr. Jennings’ reading list. “Yeah, Tommy. I can do that.”

It wasn’t an ending; he realized as he drove home. It wasn’t even really a confrontation. It was just one more step in a longer journey—not away from faith, but toward truth, whatever that turned out to be.

Meghan’s Son–first ten chapters

Chapter 1

Sunday, June 5, 2005

Meghan Orr knew fifteen distinct creaking patterns in the hallway floorboards outside her bedroom door. Each one told its own story: her mother’s hesitant approach, soft-footed and uncertain; Elder Wilson’s heavy, self-important stride during his monthly home visits; the synchronized steps of her older twin sisters, Melissa and Melanie, when they were still at home. But the pattern approaching now—slow, deliberate, with the groan of the third board from her door frame—that belonged to only one person.

Her father.

Meghan’s fingers found the edge of The God Delusion beneath her mattress and pushed it deeper into its hiding place. Sixteen seconds. That’s all she had, based on hundreds of previous approaches. Her eyes darted to the calendar on her wall, its pages filled with neatly written church events and youth group obligations. Only she knew about the tiny dots in the bottom corners, counting down. Eighty-two days until the Duke University scholarship letter arrived. Eighty-two days until she might have a way out.

Fourteen seconds.

She smoothed her bedspread, adjusted her posture on the edge of her bed, and opened her Bible to Proverbs. The worn leather binding fell open easily to the most-visited passages—the ones about obedient daughters and submissive women that her father had made her copy as penance so many times before.

Ten seconds.

Her gaze flicked to the ceiling panel above her closet, checking that no corner peeked out of place, betraying the books hidden there—college-level physics texts and dog-eared paperbacks on evolutionary biology. Her advanced placement science teacher had been quietly supplying her with the materials for two years, each one a fragment of the bridge Meghan was building toward freedom.

Six seconds.

She took a deep breath and arranged her features into what she privately called her “Sunday morning face,” placid, attentive, with just the right touch of devotional serenity. She had practiced it a thousand times in the small mirror above her dresser.

Three seconds.

Three light taps on the door. At least he was knocking now. That change came last year, after she turned sixteen. A symbolic acknowledgment of growing up, though not an actual grant of privacy, the lock had been removed from her door the day she’d gotten her first period.

“Come in, Daddy,” she called, her voice modulated to the perfect pitch of daughterly respect.

Pastor Mel Orr filled the doorway entirely, six-foot-two of imposing certainty. His eyes swept the room with practiced vigilance—checking the desk (homework displayed appropriately), the bookshelf (only approved titles), the bedside table (Bible open, devotional beside it), the walls (scripture verses in cross-stitch, nothing worldly).

“You missed dinner,” he said. Not a question.

“I’m sorry, Daddy. I was finishing my calculus homework and lost track of time.” A partial truth—she had been doing calculus, but only for twenty minutes. The rest of the afternoon had been spent reading Hitchens while sitting on the floor of her closet.

He studied her face, looking for signs of deception. Meghan had learned years ago not to blink too much, not to touch her hair, not to swallow noticeably. She had learned to believe her own lies the moment she told them.

“Your mother saved you a plate.” Another pause, another assessment. “You’ve been spending a lot of time on schoolwork lately.”

Meghan felt the familiar tightening in her chest. This was dangerous territory. Her academic excellence had always been tolerated—even encouraged to a point—if it didn’t interfere with her spiritual duties or suggest ambitions beyond what was appropriate for a good Christian daughter.

“I want to be a good steward of my abilities,” she replied, using his own language. “Like the parable of the talents. To whom much is given…”

“Much will be required,” he finished, nodding with approval that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “But we must be careful about worldly wisdom, Meghan Ruth. Knowledge without godly discernment leads to pride.”

“Yes, Daddy.”

He stepped further into the room, and Meghan fought the urge to glance at the mattress beneath her. The core of her hidden library—five books that would get her immediately pulled from public school and possibly be sent to Redemption Academy in Tennessee, where her cousin Elizabeth had been dispatched after being caught with a boy—was less than two feet away from where her father now stood.

“Pastor Wilson’s daughter received an acceptance letter from that liberal arts college in Asheville.” His tone made the words liberal arts sound like a contagious disease. “Full of ideas that lead young women away from God’s purpose for them. Her father is heartbroken.”

Meghan kept her expression sympathetic while her mind raced through implications. This wasn’t a random conversation. Her father never engaged in random conversation.

“That’s sad,” she offered carefully.

“Indeed.” He picked up her chemistry textbook from the desk, flipping through it with casual suspicion. “Knowledge is a double-edged sword, Meghan. The serpent knew this in the garden. ‘Your eyes shall be opened,’ he promised Eve. And they were opened—to sin and shame.”

He set the textbook down and turned to face her directly.

“I’m preaching on higher education this Sunday. On daughters who are led astray by the false promises of worldly knowledge.”

There it was. Not about Pastor Wilson’s daughter at all. Somehow, he suspected something. Meghan’s scholarship application, perhaps? The extra college catalogs she’d requested through Ms. Whitaker. The late nights in the school library?

“I look forward to hearing it,” she said, the lie smooth as silk on her tongue.

He nodded, his expression softening slightly. “You’ve always been a good girl, Meghan. Special. Different from other teenagers with their rebellion and disrespect.” His hand rested briefly on her head, a gesture both blessing and possession. “Your sisters followed the godly path and now look at them—Melissa with her husband in the church mission, Melanie married to that fine Christian businessman in Alabama. I thank God every day that he’s protected your heart from the world’s corruption just as he did theirs.”

The irony might have made her laugh if the stakes weren’t so high. Instead, she lowered her eyes appropriately.

“Your mother wants you to come down for your dinner before it gets cold.”

“Yes, Daddy. I’ll be right down.”

He turned to leave, then paused at the doorway. “Remember what Proverbs tell us: ‘The fear of the Lord is the beginning of knowledge.'”

“But fools despise wisdom and instruction,” Meghan completed automatically.

As his footsteps receded down the hallway, Meghan released the breath she’d been partially holding. Her hands trembled slightly as she reached beneath the mattress and extracted Dawkins once more. The book’s corners were soft from repeated handling, its pages dense with her own tiny notes in the margins.

She ran her fingers over the cover, a physical talisman of everything she was fighting for. Then she crossed to her closet, pushed aside the row of modest dresses, and slid the book into its hiding place behind the base heater vent. As she did, her fingers brushed against the sealed envelope containing her Duke application essay—the one Ms. Whitaker had called “brilliant” and “your ticket out.”

Eighty-two more days. If she could just maintain the performance for eighty-two more days.

At her desk, Meghan pulled out her journal from beneath a stack of church bulletins. This one was permitted—a devotional journal her father periodically reviewed for signs of appropriate spiritual growth. She opened it to today’s entry, already completed with acceptable reflections on Philippians.

Beneath it lay a second journal, nearly identical but for a small ink mark on the spine. She opened it to a blank page and wrote a single sentence:

He knows something—sermon on higher education Sunday.

She would need to warn her mother, adjust their plans. Perhaps accelerate some preparations.

She glanced at the single framed family photograph on her nightstand—taken three years ago at Melanie’s wedding at Mount Olive Baptist Church in Boone. Her twin sisters stood identical in their bridesmaid dresses; eyes downcast, gentle smiles fixed on their faces. The perfect daughters. The blueprint she was expected to follow.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered to their images. Not for disappointing them, but for the fact they had never known there was another choice.

Meghan stood and straightened her modest calf-length skirt. She would go downstairs, eat the dinner her mother had saved, and perform the role of the obedient daughter for the evening Bible study. She would smile and nod at her father’s pronouncements. She would help clear the table afterward and kiss her parents’ goodnight.

And then she would return to this room, to the ceiling panel and the loose floorboard and the hollowed-out devotional, and she would continue building her bridge to freedom, one forbidden page at a time.

Because knowledge wasn’t just power.

Knowledge was escape.

Chapter 2

The Great Flood covered the entire earth, destroying all living creatures except those safely within Noah’s ark,” Pastor Mel explained, his voice resonating through the Sunday School classroom. “Every mountain was covered. Every valley filled. A complete cleansing of mankind’s wickedness.”

Meghan sat in the back row of the youth classroom, her posture perfect, her Bible open on her lap. She wore her designated Sunday dress—pale blue with a white collar, modest in every possible way—and her long brown hair was pulled back with a simple clip. To anyone watching, she appeared the model pastor’s daughter: attentive, reverent, a living testimony to her father’s teachings.

Inside, she was screaming.

“The ark itself,” her father continued, drawing a crude representation on the whiteboard, “measured three hundred cubits long, fifty cubits wide, and thirty cubits high. Approximately four hundred and fifty feet by seventy-five feet by forty-five feet.” He turned to face the dozen teenagers. “A massive vessel, constructed exactly to God’s specifications.”

Meghan’s eyes flicked to Tyler Jenkins, seated two rows ahead. Last Sunday, he’d been forced to stand before the entire congregation to confess the sin of questioning the literal interpretation of Noah’s flood. She could see the tension in his shoulders, the slight tremor in his hand as he dutifully took notes. The memory of his public humiliation hung in the air between them like an unspoken warning.

“Any questions about the dimensions or construction?” her father asked, scanning the room with expectant authority.

Silence. No one dared speak after what happened to Tyler.

“Meghan?” Her father’s eyes settled on her with a familiar mixture of pride and scrutiny. “Perhaps you could remind everyone about the types of wood used in the ark’s construction?”

“Gopher wood,” she answered promptly, the expected response flowing automatically. “Though some translations call it cypress.”

Her father nodded, satisfied. “Excellent. And why did God specify this wood?”

A simple question with a simple approved answer. But something shifted in Meghan as she looked at Tyler’s bowed head. The countdown on her bedroom calendar flashed through her mind: seventy-eight days until the Duke University scholarship letter. Seventy-eight days until potential freedom.

“The Bible doesn’t actually specify why,” Meghan said, her voice calm and thoughtful. “It simply states that God commanded Noah to use that wood. But archaeologists and historians have suggested that cypress would have been remarkably durable and resistant to rot, making it a logical choice for a vessel meant to withstand a catastrophic flood.”

Her father’s expression flickered. She had deviated from the expected script: “Because God in His wisdom knows the perfect materials for His divine purposes.”

“Archaeologists and historians,” he repeated, his tone suddenly cooler. “And when did human wisdom become equal to divine revelation, Meghan?”

The room went utterly still. Everyone recognized the dangerous territory she had entered.

“I wasn’t suggesting it was equal, Daddy,” she said, using the familiar address deliberately, a subtle reminder to the others that she was his daughter. “Just that God’s wisdom often reveals itself through practical means that we can understand and appreciate. The properties of cypress wood demonstrate His foresight.”

It was a careful dance she had perfected over years, appearing to retreat while actually holding her ground. Wrapping resistance in the language of submission.

“An interesting perspective,” her father said with the slightest edge. “Though we must be cautious about elevating human understanding above scriptural truth.” He turned back to the whiteboard, but Meghan knew the matter wasn’t closed. “Now, regarding the animals on the ark…”

As her father continued the lesson, Mrs. Wilson—Elder Wilson’s wife and the designated female Sunday School assistant—slipped into the seat beside Meghan. The woman smelled of artificial roses and disapproval.

“That was dangerous, Meghan,” she whispered, barely moving her lips. “After what happened with the Jenkins boy last week, you should know better.”

Meghan nodded slightly, the picture of repentance. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Wilson. I’ve been doing extra research for my science paper. I sometimes forget what’s appropriate for church discussion.”

Mrs. Wilson’s features softened marginally. “Your father expects more from you. You’re his example to the other youth.” She patted Meghan’s hand with bony fingers. “Perhaps you should spend less time on schoolwork and more time in prayer this week.”

“Yes, ma’am. Thank you for the correction.” The words tasted like dust in her mouth.

At the front of the room, her father was describing the impossibility of the flood waters covering Mount Everest, explaining that the earth’s topography was dramatically altered by the catastrophic event.

Meghan knew the counterarguments intimately. She had read extensively about plate tectonics, sedimentary layers, and geological evidence that directly contradicted her father’s claims. The knowledge sat inside her like a burning coal, simultaneously warming her with truth and threatening to burn through her carefully constructed exterior.

“Meghan,” her father called out again, interrupting her thoughts. “Since you’ve clearly been doing additional research, perhaps you can tell us how long the flood waters prevailed upon the earth?”

It was a test, delivered with the intonation he used when setting a trap. The entire class turned to look at her.

“One hundred and fifty days,” she answered correctly. Then, seeing Tyler’s defeated posture, she added, “Though some scholars suggest that number may be symbolic rather than literal, representing a divinely complete period of judgment.”

A sharp intake of breath from Mrs. Wilson. A tightening around her father’s eyes.

“Those ‘some scholars’ are not welcome in this classroom,” he said flatly. “We teach Biblical inerrancy here. The flood lasted one hundred and fifty literal days because God’s Word says so.”

Tension crackled in the air. Meghan had pushed too far, and she knew it. But as she looked at Tyler, who had raised his head slightly, a flicker of something like hope or gratitude in his eyes, she couldn’t bring herself to regret it.

“I apologize for the confusion,” she said, lowering her eyes appropriately. “I only meant to highlight how God’s divine patterns appear throughout scripture.”

Her father studied her for a long moment before nodding curtly. “Indeed. Though we must be careful not to confuse divine patterns with human interpretations that undermine literal truth.”

As he returned to his lesson, Meghan felt Mrs. Wilson’s disapproving gaze boring into her. But she also noticed something else: Tyler sat slightly straighter, his shoulders no longer curved in shame. Two girls in the front row exchanging glances that weren’t entirely compliant. A subtle shift in the energy of the room.

She hadn’t openly rebelled. She hadn’t directly challenged her father’s authority. But she had created a tiny crack in the monolithic certainty he demanded—a crack through which a sliver of questioning might enter.

As the lesson concluded, her father announced, “We’ll close in prayer. Tyler, would you lead us?”

The boy froze, clearly unprepared for this public test of his renewed obedience. He stood shakily, hands gripping his Bible.

“Um… Dear Heavenly Father,” he began, his voice barely audible. “Thank you for… for your Word and its perfect truth. Thank you for…” He faltered, clearly struggling to find appropriately pious words under her father’s scrutiny.

“For showing us the consequences of disobedience through the flood,” Meghan supplied quietly, loud enough for Tyler to hear but soft enough to seem like she was just helping a fellow student.

Tyler seized the lifeline. “For showing us the consequences of disobedience through the flood,” he repeated, stronger now. “And for the ark that saved the faithful. Help us to be like Noah, obedient to your commands even when we don’t understand them. In Jesus’ name, amen.”

“Amen,” the class echoed.

As they filed out of the classroom, Tyler passed close to Meghan. “Thanks,” he whispered, not looking at her.

She didn’t respond, couldn’t risk being seen in conversation with the recently disciplined boy. But she felt a small, fierce glow of satisfaction. Seventy-eight days until the Duke letter might arrive. Seventy-eight days until she might escape this suffocating world of enforced certainty.

But until then, perhaps she could create a few more cracks in the walls of her father’s fortress.

Her father caught her arm as she tried to exit. “A word, Meghan,” he said, his voice carrying that special timbre she had learned to fear. “About your additional ‘research.'”

Mrs. Wilson shot her a look that clearly said “I warned you” as she closed the classroom door behind her, leaving Meghan alone with her father.

Pastor Mel Orr set his Bible down deliberately on the desk. “What was that display about?”

“I’m sorry if I spoke out of turn, Daddy,” Meghan said, her voice modulated to perfect daughterly contrition. “I was only trying to show how science actually confirms the Bible’s wisdom.”

“Don’t.” His voice cut through her explanation like a blade. “Don’t insult my intelligence by pretending that’s what you were doing.”

The mask of contrition slipped slightly. “I was answering your questions correctly.”

“You were deliberately introducing doubt. After what happened with the Jenkins boy, you chose to undermine my teaching.” His eyes narrowed. “The question is why.”

Meghan carefully recalibrated. Too much submission would seem insincere now, too much defiance would be dangerous. “I felt bad for Tyler,” she admitted, offering a partial truth. “He’s been so ashamed, and I thought showing how his questions actually had scholarly support might help him feel less… sinful.”

Her father’s expression remained hard, but she detected a flicker of uncertainty. Playing his pastoral role sometimes worked when direct obedience failed.

“Compassion is admirable,” he said finally. “But not when it leads others astray. Tyler needed correction, not encouragement in his error.”

“Yes, Daddy. I understand.”

He studied her for a long time. “I’m concerned about these outside sources you’re consulting. What exactly are you reading for this ‘science paper’?”

Dangerous territory. “Just our textbook and some articles Ms. Martinez recommended.” The lie fell easily from her lips, practiced and smooth. “It’s on geological formations. Nothing controversial.”

“I’d like to review these articles.”

“Of course,” she said, maintaining eye contact. “I’ll bring them home from the school library tomorrow.”

She would spend tonight fabricating suitably innocuous articles, just plausible enough to pass inspection without revealing her actual research into evolutionary geology and the mythological patterns of flood stories across ancient cultures.

“See that you do.” He picked up his Bible, signaling the conversation was ending. “And Meghan? Your sisters never gave me this kind of concern. They understood a daughter’s role is to uphold her father’s teachings, not question them.”

The comparison to Melissa and Melanie was intended to sting, and it did—not because Meghan wanted to be like them, but because she knew what their compliance had cost them. Their lives mapped out by their father’s expectations; their minds carefully limited to approved thoughts.

“I’ll do better,” she promised, the words hollow in her throat.

As they walked together toward the main sanctuary for the regular service, Meghan noticed Tyler standing with his parents, his posture once again submissive, but his eyes briefly met hers with something that hadn’t been there before—a tiny spark of awareness, of possibility.

One small crack in the wall. Seventy-eight days to create more before she might finally break free altogether.

Chapter 3

Sunday dinner at the Orr household followed the same pattern it had for as long as Meghan could remember. Her father sat at the head of the table, her mother at the foot. The food was served precisely at one o’clock, after her father’s lengthy grace. The conversation followed its prescribed path through sermon reflections, church announcements, and carefully curated current events that reinforced the worldview Pastor Mel approved.

Today, however, carried an undercurrent of tension that twisted through the predictable routine like a dark thread.

“The pot roast is excellent, Ruth,” her father said, using her mother’s proper name rather than the “Mama B” that Meghan and her sisters had called her since childhood.

“Thank you, Mel.” Her mother’s voice was soft, almost transparent. At forty-five, Ruth Orr had once been beautiful in a delicate way. Now she seemed faded, as though years of careful compliance had bleached the color from her. Only her eyes, the same deep brown as Meghan’s, retained their quiet intensity, though she rarely met anyone’s gaze directly.

“Meghan had some interesting contributions in Sunday School this morning,” her father said, cutting his meat with precise movements. “About the flood.”

Her mother’s hands stilled momentarily over her plate. “Is that so?”

“She seems to have been consulting some questionable sources for her science paper. Introducing alternative interpretations to Biblical literalism.”

The accusation hung in the air between them. Meghan focused on her food, waiting for her cue in this familiar performance.

“I’m sure she meant well,” her mother offered. “Meghan has always been thorough in her studies.”

Her father’s knife scraped against the plate with slightly more force than necessary. “Thorough is one thing. Introducing doubt to impressionable young people is another.”

“I wasn’t introducing doubt, Daddy,” Meghan said, her voice calm and respectful. “I was trying to show how even secular science can support Biblical truth when understood correctly.”

It was the expected response, the one that had the best chance of defusing his anger. Meghan had spent years learning the precise language that would satisfy him—or at least not provoke him further.

Her father studied her for a long moment. “Your Advanced Placement courses are becoming a concern to me, Meghan. They seem to be leading you toward worldly thinking.”

“They’re important for college applications,” her mother interjected, then immediately looked down when her husband’s attention shifted to her.

“College,” he repeated, as though the word itself was distasteful. “Melissa attended Bible college, and she’s doing the Lord’s work in New Orleans with her husband. Melanie took secretarial courses and found a godly husband in Alabama. Neither needed so-called advanced placement.”

“Every child is different, Mel,” her mother said quietly. “Meghan has been blessed with a scholarly mind.”

“A blessing that becomes a curse when not properly directed,” he countered.

Meghan’s throat tightened. This was dangerous territory—her academic future being questioned openly. The Duke scholarship suddenly seemed even more critical.

“I’ve maintained my 4.0 GPA and my perfect attendance at church,” Meghan reminded him. “Ms. Martinez says my science grades could open doors to scholarships.”

Her father set down his fork. “And what doors would those be, exactly?”

Before Meghan could answer, her mother knocked over her water glass. The liquid spread quickly across the tablecloth, threatening her father’s Bible that always sat at his right-hand during meals.

“Oh!” Her mother stood quickly. “I’m so sorry, Mel. Let me get that.”

She hurried to grab a towel from the kitchen, her movements uncharacteristically clumsy. As she blotted the spill, she locked eyes with Meghan for the briefest moment. A deliberate diversion.

“I’ll help,” Meghan said, rising to assist. Her father sighed with exasperation as the women fussed over the tablecloth.

“Perhaps we should continue this discussion another time,” her mother suggested as she worked. “The roast is getting cold.”

It was a weak excuse, but her father seemed to lose interest in pursuing the college question, turning instead to his weekly review of the sermon’s reception among the congregation.

“Elder Wilson was particularly moved by the passage on parental authority,” he noted. “He mentioned it might make a good topic for the regional pastor’s conference.”

The moment of danger had passed, deflected by her mother’s timely “accident.” It wasn’t the first time such a convenient interruption had occurred precisely when conversation veered toward Meghan’s future.

After dinner, as Meghan helped with the dishes—her father having retreated to his study to prepare the evening service—her mother placed a hand briefly on her arm.

“Be careful, Meggie,” she whispered, using the childhood nickname never spoken in her father’s presence. “Tyler Jenkins’s father told Elder Wilson about your comments in class.”

Meghan’s stomach tightened. “Mr. Jenkins wasn’t even there.”

“Tyler told him. He thought you were defending him.” Her mother handed her another plate to dry. “He meant well, but…”

But he had inadvertently drawn attention to Meghan’s subtle rebellion. The irony wasn’t lost on her. Her attempt to help Tyler had only put herself at greater risk.

“I’ll be more careful,” Meghan promised.

Her mother glanced toward the study door, then reached into her apron pocket. “I was at the grocery store yesterday. Near the school supplies.”

She slipped something into Meghan’s hand. A small USB drive, dark blue and innocuous.

Meghan palmed it quickly. “What’s on it?”

“Mrs. Whitaker’s son sent those research papers you wanted. About geological evidence.” Her mother’s voice was barely audible. “Scientific journal articles about sedimentary layers and carbon dating of flood plains. Things that might help with your… school project.”

The subtext was clear. Information that directly contradicted her father’s teaching on the Biblical flood—precisely what Meghan had been subtly alluding to in Sunday School.

“Thank you,” Meghan whispered, tucking the drive into her pocket. “I’ll be careful with it.”

Her mother nodded, then raised her voice to normal levels. “Don’t forget to polish the silver before the evening service. Your father likes everything to shine for the Lord’s Day.”

The sudden shift in tone signaled the end of their private exchange. But as they continued washing dishes, side by side in the afternoon light, Meghan felt the familiar, complicated gratitude she always experienced during these moments of conspiracy with her mother.

Ruth Orr had never openly rebelled against her husband’s authority. She attended every service, prepared every meal, maintained a perfectly ordered Christian home. To all appearances, she was the ideal pastor’s wife—supportive, submissive, silent.

Yet for years, she had been Meghan’s secret ally. A library book quietly borrowed. A message passed to Ms. Whitaker. A college brochure hidden among recipe clippings. Small acts of subversion wrapped in perfect compliance, teaching her daughter the very techniques she would need to eventually escape.

“I heard your father mention your AP classes,” her mother said as they finished the dishes. “You should know he’s speaking with the school board about restricting your schedule next semester.”

Meghan’s heart stuttered. “He can’t do that. I need those classes for …”

“For your transcript. I know.” Her mother dried her hands methodically on a dish towel. “I’ve suggested that reducing your academic standing might attract attention from the school counselor. That it might be better to allow you to maintain your current schedule until graduation.”

The calculation was clear, using her father’s fear of outside scrutiny against him. It was the same strategy they had employed to allow Meghan to work at the restaurant, to participate in academic competitions, to access the public library for “research projects.”

“Will it work?” Meghan asked.

Her mother shrugged slightly. “It usually does. Your father values appearances.” A hint of bitterness colored the observation. “But you should prepare arguments about how your academic excellence reflects well on his parenting and the church. That approach tends to be effective.”

They moved to the living room, where Meghan began polishing the silver candlesticks used for Sunday dinner—another weekly ritual. Through the open window, they could hear the distant sounds of neighborhood children playing, enjoying their Sunday afternoon freedom.

“Your sisters never needed these strategies,” her mother said suddenly, her voice so low Meghan barely caught the words.

“Melissa and Melanie?”

“They accepted everything.” Her mother’s hands worked automatically, arranging flowers in a vase. “The restrictions, the expectations, the predetermined path. They never questioned, never struggled.” She glanced toward Meghan, something like pride flickering across her features. “You were different from the beginning.”

“Is that why you help me?” Meghan asked carefully. “Because I’m different?”

Her mother was silent for a long moment, her fingers absently stroking a pale-yellow rose. “I help you because I see myself in you. The self I might have been, if…” She trailed off, then straightened her shoulders. “Your father will be finished with his preparation soon. You should get ready for evening service.”

As Meghan stood to leave, her mother added, “Check the second hymnal on your bookshelf tonight. The one with the torn page in Psalms.”

Meghan nodded, understanding immediately. Another hiding place, another secret communication.

Her mother returned to arranging flowers, her face once again composed into the perfect mask of serene submission that she had worn for twenty-five years of marriage. But for that moment, Meghan had glimpsed something else—a flicker of the woman Ruth Orr might have been, had her own escape plan succeeded.

Later that night, after evening service and family devotions, Meghan sat at her desk with her Bible open, as expected during her designated study time. But her attention was focused on the second hymnal from her bookshelf—the one with the torn page in Psalms.

Inside, she found a folded bank statement, showing a deposit of $120. Her weekend wages from the restaurant, which her father believed went into a “hope chest” account for her future as a proper Christian wife, but which funded a secret account at First National, accessible only to Meghan.

Beneath the statement was a carefully clipped newspaper article about Duke University’s scholarship program for exceptional students from North Carolina, with a handwritten note in her mother’s neat script: “Mrs. Whitaker says to remind you that your application has been received. August 26th notification date confirmed.”

Meghan allowed herself a small smile as she memorized the information, then returned the bank statement to the hymnal. She didn’t need to keep the date—August 26th was already burned into her memory, marked on her calendar with those inconspicuous dots. Seventy-seven days from tomorrow.

Seventy-seven days until she might know if the invisible bridge her mother had helped her build, one forbidden book and secret bank deposit at a time, would be strong enough to carry her weight into a different future.

Chapter 4

Meghan approached the mailbox with practiced casualness. It was an ordinary Friday afternoon in late August, the kind of sweltering North Carolina day when the air hung heavy with humidity and the cicadas droned relentlessly in the pines. To anyone watching from the church office across the street, and someone was always watching, she was simply a dutiful daughter retrieving the family mail.

Only she knew about the countdown that had dominated her thoughts for months, now down to a single day. Only she knew how her heart hammered against her ribs as she reached for the mailbox latch.

The church secretary, Mrs. Lowry, waved from the office window. Meghan smiled and waved back, the perfect pastor’s daughter completing a mundane chore. Her hands did not tremble as she collected the stack of envelopes and church newsletters. Her pace remained measured as she walked back up the driveway. Nothing to see. Nothing unusual happening.

But there it was, nestled between the electric bill and her father’s copy of “The Baptist Witness”: a thick envelope with the unmistakable Duke University crest in the corner.

Meghan’s breath caught. She slid the envelope to the bottom of the stack, her fingers suddenly cold despite the August heat. The countdown that had sustained her through months of Sunday sermons and family devotions, through her father’s increasing suspicion and Tyler Jenkins’s public humiliation, had reached zero.

The answer was here.

She maintained her unhurried pace up the driveway, through the front door, and into the kitchen where her mother was preparing dinner. Ruth Orr glanced up from the cutting board, her eyes immediately finding her daughter’s.

“Anything interesting?” she asked, her tone casual, but Meghan caught the slight hitch in her voice.

“Just the usual,” Meghan replied, setting the stack on the counter. “Bills, church newsletters.” She separated out her father’s mail into his designated basket, deliberately placing the Duke envelope between two church publications. Their eyes met briefly, a silent message passing between them: Not here. Not now.

“Your father’s at a deacons’ meeting until six,” her mother said, returning to chopping vegetables. “He asked that you complete your Bible study before dinner.”

Translation: We have about two hours.

“I’ll be in my room,” Meghan replied, picking up the basket containing her father’s mail, including the hidden Duke envelope.

Her mother nodded, her knife continuing its steady rhythm against the cutting board. Only someone who knew her well would notice the slight tension in her shoulders, the barely perceptible tremor in her hands.

Meghan climbed the stairs to her bedroom, each step measured, controlled. Inside, she closed the door—not all the way, never all the way, as that would suggest secrecy—and set the mail basket on her desk. She removed the Duke envelope with steady hands and stared at it.

This moment had lived in her imagination for so long, fueled her through countless nights of hidden reading and secret study. Now that it was here, she found herself hesitating. Inside this envelope lay either freedom or continued captivity.

She slid her finger under the seal and carefully opened it, extracting the contents without tearing anything. Preservation of evidence was second nature to her now; her father routinely inspected the trash for signs of forbidden correspondence.

The first page bore the Duke University letterhead, formal and imposing.

Dear Ms. Orr,

It is with great pleasure that I inform you of your acceptance to Duke University for the Fall 2006 semester…

Meghan read the words once, twice, a third time, not quite believing they were real. She continued reading, the phrases jumping out at her like beacons.

…full academic scholarship…

…exceptional academic achievement…

…among our most promising applicants…

She pressed a hand to her mouth, stifling the sound that threatened to escape—not quite a laugh, not quite a sob, but something raw and primal that belonged to a different Meghan than the one who lived in this house.

The scholarship was real. The escape route was open.

She allowed herself exactly ten seconds of unchecked emotion, counting silently as tears blurred her vision. At ten, she inhaled deeply, composed her features, and carefully refolded the letter and supporting materials.

Next, she removed the loose floorboard beneath her bed and extracted a small metal box, ostensibly for storing special Bible verse cards, but containing her most precious contraband. Inside were her SAT scores (perfect in math, nearly perfect in verbal), her transcript showing straight A’s despite her father’s periodic attempts to limit her advanced coursework, and a small notebook tracking every deposit to her secret bank account.

She added the Duke acceptance packet to this collection, her fingers lingering momentarily on the embossed university seal. Then she replaced everything, secured the floorboard, and pushed herself to her feet.

Her next steps were automatic, practiced countless times in her mind. She crossed to her desk and removed a single sheet of her father’s church letterhead. Using her left hand—slightly clumsier but with handwriting entirely different from her normal script—she composed a brief rejection letter.

Dear Duke University Admissions Office,

Thank you for your consideration of my application, but I must decline your offer of admission. After prayer and consultation with my spiritual advisors, I have decided to pursue a path more aligned with God’s plan for young Christian women.

Respectfully, Meghan R. Orr

She studied the letter critically. The handwriting was convincingly different from her own, the phrasing precisely what her father would expect from a properly submissive daughter. When he inevitably discovered that she had applied—and he would, eventually—this decoy rejection would buy her critical time.

She folded the letter, addressed an envelope, but didn’t seal it. That would come later, after she had shown her mother, and they had finalized the next phase of their plan.

There was a soft knock at her bedroom door, three quick taps, their signal. Meghan quickly slid the fake rejection letter into her Bible and opened the door.

Her mother stood there, holding a laundry basket. “I thought you might have some things for washing,” she said, loud enough to be heard by anyone who might be listening.

Meghan nodded and gestured her in. As her mother began collecting clothes from the hamper, Meghan leaned close and whispered, “It came. Full scholarship.”

Her mother’s hands stilled momentarily, then resumed their task. “Thank the Lord,” she murmured, the irony evident only to her daughter.

“I’ve prepared the rejection letter,” Meghan continued softly, retrieving it from her Bible to show her mother. “In case he discovers the application.”

Ruth scanned it quickly, her lips curving in a small, sad smile at the precise mimicry of her husband’s religious phrasing. “Good,” Ruth said, folding the letter carefully. “We’ll hold on to it—for now. If he ever finds out and demands to see something, we’ll be ready.”

Meghan exhaled, tension easing from her shoulders. “You’re sure that’s better than mailing it?”

“I’m sure,” her mother said firmly. “You’re not giving up that scholarship. We’ll only use this if we absolutely must.”

She tucked the letter into her apron pocket—not to mail it, but to store it with the rest of their carefully constructed safeguards.

“What if he checks with the university?” Meghan asked, voicing the fear that had nagged at her for months.

“He won’t,” her mother assured her. “Your father believes his authority is absolute. The idea that his directives might be circumvented simply doesn’t occur to him.” A flash of bitterness, perhaps, or hard-won wisdom, crossed her features before disappearing.

“Nine months,” Meghan whispered. “Nine months and I’ll be out.”

Her mother straightened; the laundry basket balanced on her hip. For a moment, she allowed her carefully maintained facade to slip, revealing the woman beneath—fiercer, sadder, more determined than the submissive pastor’s wife she portrayed.

“Nine months,” she agreed. “But we must be more careful than ever. Your father has been speaking with Elder Wilson about you.”

Meghan’s stomach tightened. “About what?”

“He’s concerned about your ‘worldly academic focus.’ He mentioned the possibility of homeschooling for your senior year.”

The ground seemed to shift beneath Meghan’s feet. Homeschooling would mean the end of AP classes, the end of her refuge at the school library, the end of her vital connection to Ms. Whitaker.

“He can’t do that,” she whispered. “Not when I’m so close.”

“He won’t,” her mother said firmly. “I’ve reminded him how it would appear to the congregation—pulling his daughter from school in her senior year, after she’s received academic commendations that reflect well on his parenting. He values appearances.”

It was their most reliable weapon against her father: his concern for his public image as a successful spiritual leader with a perfect Christian family. Every achievement Meghan had been permitted—from academic competitions to her job at the restaurant—had been carefully framed as enhancing his reputation rather than supporting her independence.

“I’ve also suggested,” her mother continued, even more quietly, “that removing you from school might attract unwanted attention from educational authorities. That college scholarships for pastor’s daughters reflect well on the church’s commitment to excellence.”

Meghan nodded, understanding the strategy. Appeal to his pride. Frame her achievements as his. Make her freedom appear to serve his interests.

“Will it work?” she asked.

Her mother’s mouth tightened. “It has so far.” She shifted the laundry basket. “I should continue with chores. Your father will be home soon.”

As her mother turned to leave, Meghan impulsively caught her arm. “Thank you,” she whispered, the words containing years of gratitude for small rebellions, secret support, and silent complicity.

Ruth’s expression softened. She touched her daughter’s cheek briefly, then resumed her role—shoulders slightly rounded, eyes appropriately lowered, movements efficient but unobtrusive. The perfect pastor’s wife, heading downstairs to finish dinner before her husband returned.

Alone again, Meghan sat at her desk and opened her Bible to the expected passage for today’s study. But her mind was elsewhere, racing with implications and possibilities.

She had her ticket out. The scholarship to Duke was secured. Nine more months of performance and deception, and she would walk away from her father’s house, his church, his God. Nine more months until she could speak and think and read freely, without hiding books beneath floorboards or coding messages into mundane conversations.

Freedom had a date now. A timeline. A certainty.

Meghan turned to her window, gazing out in the late August afternoon. Tomorrow she would put on her modest waitress uniform and work her regular Saturday shift at the Daniel Boone Restaurant. She would serve coffee to church members, smile at their questions about her future, and offer appropriately humble responses about serving the Lord however He directed.

And in nine months, she would be gone.

What she couldn’t know, as she sat surrounded by carefully constructed facades and secret plans, was that tomorrow would bring an encounter that would both complicate and enrich her path to freedom. A blue-eyed engineering student named Darren Franklin, whose entrance into her life would add love to her quest for liberation, and ultimately, both heartbreak and an unexpected legacy.

Chapter 5

The Daniel Boone Restaurant occupied the same corner of Main Street it had since 1962, its rustic wooden exterior and wagon wheel sign unchanged by decades of economic shifts and dining trends. For the residents of Boone, North Carolina, it represented stability—a place where the coffee was always the same strength, the biscuits followed a recipe three generations old, and the waitresses still called you “hon” regardless of your age or status.

For Meghan Orr, it represented something entirely different: a border crossing between worlds.

She pushed through the back entrance at precisely 7:42 AM, same as every Saturday for the past fourteen months. The kitchen already hummed with activity—Hector at the grill flipping pancakes with practiced efficiency, Luanne arranging silverware rolls, and Mr. Whitaker checking inventory in the walk-in cooler.

“Morning, Meghan,” Luanne called, her bottle-red hair piled improbably high on her head. At fifty-eight, she’d been waiting tables at Daniel Boone longer than Meghan had been alive. “You’re section three today. The church ladies are already asking for you.”

Meghan nodded, tying her apron with efficient movements. Section three meant the front corner tables—the most visible section, where her father’s congregants could observe Pastor Mel’s dutiful daughter performing appropriately modest labor. It wasn’t a coincidence. Mr. Whitaker, knowing the delicate balance Meghan maintained, deliberately assigned her to the section where she could be seen dutifully working by church members, maintaining her cover story.

She checked her appearance in the small mirror by the time clock: hair pulled back in a simple ponytail, modest uniform pressed and spotless, small silver cross necklace visible at her throat—the perfect image of a Christian girl earning money for her “hope chest” before pursuing an appropriately feminine future.

If they only knew what her actual bank balance was earmarked for: first-semester expenses at Duke that weren’t covered by her scholarship. Bus tickets. A wardrobe that didn’t scream “fundamentalist pastor’s daughter.” Academic books she wouldn’t have to hide.

Nine months until escape. Now, with the acceptance letter safely hidden beneath her bedroom floorboard, the countdown felt different—more real, more certain, but also more dangerous. The closer freedom came, the more devastating discovery would be.

“You’re smiling,” Luanne observed, sidling up beside her. “Got a secret, sugar?”

Meghan arranged her features into something more neutral. “Just looking forward to a beautiful Saturday,” she replied, reaching for her order pad and tucking pencils into her apron pocket. The excitement of yesterday’s Duke letter still hummed through her veins, though she was careful not to let it show.

Luanne studied her with shrewd eyes that missed little. Though never explicitly stated, Meghan suspected the older waitress saw more than she let on about the pastor’s perfect daughter.

“Mm-hmm,” was all she said, before turning back to her silverware. “Coffee’s fresh. Mrs. Abernathy and her Bible study crew are at table twelve. Already asked for you specially.”

Mrs. Abernathy—wife of her father’s most fervent deacon and self-appointed moral guardian of the youth group. Meghan suppressed a sigh and reached for the coffee pot.

“On it,” she said, her public voice taking over—slightly higher, unfailingly pleasant, and carefully devoid of the intelligence that might make church members uncomfortable in a pastor’s daughter.

As she approached table twelve, she painted on her church service smile—the one that revealed nothing of the girl who read Dawkins by flashlight or the young woman who had just secured her escape route via academic scholarship.

“Good morning, ladies! What a blessing to see you all today.”

Four women in their sixties looked up with approving smiles. They wore different outfits but somehow managed to look identical—same carefully set hairstyles, same modest blouses, same expressions of benevolent surveillance.

“Meghan, dear,” Mrs. Abernathy greeted her. “We were just discussing the youth group car wash fundraiser. We thought you might help organize the girls’ participation.”

“I’d be honored,” Meghan replied automatically, pouring coffee with practiced precision. The liquid steamed perfectly at three-quarters up each cup, not a drop spilled on the saucers. After fourteen months, she could perform these tasks while mentally reciting entire passages from her hidden books.

“Your father mentioned you received a perfect score on your mathematics test,” Mrs. Wilson noted, stirring artificial sweetener into her coffee. “Such a blessing that you use your mind for God’s glory rather than worldly achievement.”

Meghan nodded, the irony almost choking her. “The Lord gives different gifts to each of us,” she recited, a phrase she’d heard a thousand times in her father’s sermons. “I’m just grateful for the opportunity to develop mine.”

Opportunity they would deny her if they knew what she really planned. Nine more months of this performance. She could do it. She’d been rehearsing her entire life.

“Are you ready to order, or would you like a few more minutes with the menus?” Professional, pleasant, perfect.

After taking their orders—four variations of the breakfast special with modifications that she committed to memory without writing down—Meghan moved efficiently between her other tables. The Saturday morning rush was familiar territory, a choreographed dance of coffee refills, order deliveries, and the kind of conversation expected in a small-town restaurant where everyone knew everyone else’s business.

At the corner booth, Mr. Carver, her high school principal, caught her eye and nodded slightly. Unlike the church ladies, he knew about her Duke acceptance—had written one of her recommendation letters, in fact. The silent acknowledgment warmed her momentarily.

“Order up for table seventeen!” Hector called from the kitchen.

Meghan retrieved the plates—her movements smooth and economical, no wasted energy. Each task at the restaurant reinforced what she’d learned at home: efficiency, invisibility when convenient, perfect performance when observed.

As she served a young family their pancakes, she caught sight of the clock above the counter. Five hours until her shift ended. Five hours of performance before she could retreat to the library for her Saturday afternoon sanctuary where Mrs. Whitaker—wife of the restaurant owner and Meghan’s longtime ally—would be waiting with new reading recommendations carefully selected to avoid detection if her father investigated.

After this shift, she had her weekly routine mapped out perfectly: library with Mrs. Whitaker this afternoon, then church tomorrow morning, family dinner, evening service. Monday would bring school, her other refuge, with AP Physics and Calculus challenging her mind while her father believed she was simply fulfilling graduation requirements.

Nine months of these careful routines. Nine months until Duke.

She could almost see it: a dormitory room with books displayed openly on shelves. Classes where questions weren’t acts of rebellion but expected participation. Conversations that didn’t require constant self-censorship. A place where her mind could expand without pushing against the boundaries of acceptable feminine knowledge.

“Coffee refill, hon?” she asked an elderly man reading a newspaper at the counter, her thoughts hidden behind practiced pleasantness.

The bell above the door jingled as a new customer entered. Meghan glanced up reflexively, then quickly returned her attention to pouring coffee. Just another Saturday patron. Not her table. Not her concern.

She couldn’t have known that this unremarkable moment—the bell’s chime, the door opening, her brief glance up—marked the invisible line between her meticulously planned future and something altogether different. Couldn’t have known that the young man who had just entered, consulting a map and looking slightly lost, would become the alternate route on her journey to freedom.

Darren Franklin hadn’t been part of her calculations. But in four minutes and thirty-seven seconds, when Luanne would twist her ankle on a wet spot near the kitchen and Mr. Whitaker would reassign section four to Meghan, he would become an unexpected variable in her carefully formulated escape equation.

In the kitchen, Meghan tucked her order pad into her apron pocket and calculated her expected tips for the day. By her estimation, she’d add approximately sixty-three dollars to her Duke fund. Sixty-three dollars closer to freedom.

The bell chimed again. More customers. The usual Saturday rhythm continued.

Five hours until the shift ended. Nine months until Duke. The countdown that had sustained her through years of confinement ticked steadily in her mind as she pushed through the swinging door into the dining room, unaware that her life was about to change course.

Chapter 6

Three minutes and forty-two seconds after Meghan had first noticed the new customer, the sound of shattering ceramic preceded Luanne’s cry of pain.

Meghan turned from the register to see the veteran waitress clutching the edge of the counter, her face contorted as she lifted her right foot slightly off the ground. A broken coffee mug lay in pieces at her feet, dark liquid spreading across the tile floor.

“Slipped on something,” Luanne hissed through clenched teeth. “Damn floor’s always wet by the ice machine.”

Mr. Whitaker emerged from the office, immediately taking in the situation. “Let’s get you sitting down,” he said, helping Luanne to a chair. He turned to Meghan. “Can you handle section four for the rest of the shift? I know you’re already covering three.”

“Of course,” Meghan replied automatically. Extra tables meant extra tips. Extra tips meant more money for her Duke fund. Every dollar was one step closer to freedom.

Mr. Whitaker smiled apologetically. “Thanks, Meghan. There’s a young man just seated at table eighteen who hasn’t been helped yet. Looks like he might not be from around here.”

Meghan nodded, already reaching for another order pad. Table eighteen—the small two-person booth in the corner of section four, partially hidden by the large plastic fern that had been a fixture of the restaurant since before she was born. As she navigated between tables, she mentally calculated how to incorporate these new responsibilities into her routine without missing a beat.

She approached table eighteen with practiced efficiency, order pad ready, professional smile in place. “Good morning, welcome to the Daniel Boone. Can I start you with some coffee?”

The young man looked up from a map spread across the table, and Meghan experienced a peculiar sensation—as though the noisy restaurant had suddenly gone silent around her.

He was perhaps two or three years older than she was, with dark wavy hair that fell slightly across his forehead and eyes the precise shade of a winter sky after snow. He wore a plain blue button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows, exposing forearms marked with what appeared to be graphite smudges. An open engineering textbook lay beside the map, its margins filled with handwritten notes.

What struck her most, however, wasn’t his appearance but his expression when he met her eyes—direct, curious, completely devoid of the assessing gaze she had come to expect from men in her father’s congregation. He looked at her as though she were simply a person, not a category or a role or a potential spiritual project.

“Coffee would be great,” he said, closing the map. “And maybe some local expertise, if you’re offering that too.” His voice carried a slight Southern accent, but not the specific Appalachian cadence of Boone natives. “I’m a bit turned around.”

Meghan poured his coffee with the steady hand developed through months of practice, though she felt oddly aware of her movements in a way she typically wasn’t. “Where are you trying to get to?”

“Vulcan Materials,” he replied. “I’m starting an internship there Monday, but thought I’d get my bearings today. The rental GPS keeps routing me through roads that don’t seem to exist anymore.”

“The highway construction changed all the access routes last year,” Meghan explained. “Most maps haven’t caught up.” She hesitated, then set the coffee pot down and reached for his map. “May I?”

He nodded, sliding it toward her.

Meghan traced the correct route with her finger, conscious of the unusual liberty she was taking. She rarely initiated conversation with male customers, particularly those close to her age. Such behavior would inevitably be reported back to her father by one of his ever-vigilant congregation members. But something about this stranger—his direct gaze, his obvious intelligence, the complete absence of religious signaling—made her momentarily reckless.

“This back road here is faster than the highway anyway,” she added. “Especially during shift changes.”

“You just saved me hours of frustrated driving,” he said with a grin that transformed his serious face. “I’m Darren, by the way. Darren Franklin.”

The introduction created a small crisis of protocol. Church standards dictated that she respond with a polite nod and return to professional distance. But they were in a public restaurant, not church. And this was precisely the kind of normal interaction she craved in her imagined Duke future.

“Meghan,” she replied, offering neither her last name nor a handshake, a compromise between openness and caution. “Are you ready to order, or do you need a minute with the menu?”

“What would you recommend?” His question was simple, but the direct engagement—asking for her opinion rather than her service—felt unexpectedly intimate.

“The blueberry pancakes,” she answered without hesitation. “They’re made with berries from the Harrison farm just outside town. Nothing like the frozen ones other places use.”

He closed his menu. “Sold. Blueberry pancakes it is.”

As Meghan wrote down the order, she noticed the title of a book partially visible beneath his engineering text: The Magic of Reality by Richard Dawkins. Her heart performed a strange little stutter. That book was currently hidden beneath the loose floorboard in her bedroom, one of her most dangerous possessions. If her father found it, she would lose her freedom immediately, no phone, no job, no school library access.

Darren noticed her gaze and his expression shifted subtly. “Have you read it?” he asked, his voice casual but his eyes suddenly more attentive.

It was a test, Meghan realized. A gentle probe to gauge her reaction to Dawkins—evolution’s most unapologetic defender, the atheist her father had called “Satan’s most devoted servant” in at least three sermons. The question created a perfect convergence of risk and opportunity.

In nine months, she would be at Duke. In nine months, she could answer such questions freely. But now, in this restaurant where church members occupied at least four tables within earshot?

“I’ve read some of his work,” she replied carefully, the admission both thrilling and terrifying. She had never acknowledged such reading to anyone except Ms. Whitaker and her mother.

Something changed in Darren’s expression—surprise, followed by a deeper interest. “Not what I expected to hear in small-town North Carolina,” he said quietly.

“We’re full of surprises,” Meghan responded, then added with deliberate emphasis, “Some of us, anyway.”

The distinction was clear: Some of us. Not all. Not most. She was separating herself from her surroundings, revealing something dangerous about herself to this stranger.

“I’d like to hear about those surprises sometime,” Darren said, maintaining eye contact that felt like a tangible connection between them.

The implied future conversation hung in the air between them—impossible, reckless, and suddenly, desperately desired. Meghan became acutely aware of Mrs. Abernathy watching from table twelve, of the precarious balance of her carefully constructed escape plan, of the nine months remaining before Duke.

“I’ll put your order in,” she said, taking a small step back, her professional demeanor reasserting itself.

But as she turned toward the kitchen, he spoke again. “I’ll be hiking the Greenway Trail tomorrow afternoon. I hear the views of the valley are worth seeing.”

It wasn’t quite a question, nor precisely an invitation—just information offered without expectation. Information that created possibility without demanding response.

Meghan hesitated, balanced on the knife edge between caution and desire. “The Howard Knob section has the best views,” she said, not looking back. “Around three o’clock, the light on the valley is perfect.”

She continued to the kitchen, her heart racing with the recklessness of what she’d just done. She hadn’t explicitly agreed to meet him, but she’d provided specific information that constituted an implicit acknowledgment. A tentative yes hidden within practical advice.

As she handed the order to Hector, Meghan glanced back at table eighteen. Darren had reopened his engineering textbook, but he wasn’t looking at it. Instead, he was watching her with an expression of quiet interest that made her feel simultaneously exposed and recognized.

For the remainder of her shift, Meghan maintained her careful routine—refilling coffee, delivering orders, making appropriate small talk with church members. But she was acutely conscious of Darren’s presence, of his occasional glance in her direction, of the Dawkins book that represented their unlikely point of connection.

When she brought his pancakes, their conversation remained professionally appropriate, yet charged with unspoken recognition. He asked about local hiking trails with a casualness that wouldn’t raise suspicions among observing church members. She provided information with the helpful courtesy expected of a waitress, nothing more.

But when he paid his bill, leaving a generous tip, he also left something else: a small slip of paper with a phone number, tucked beneath his coffee cup where only she would find it.

Meghan slipped it into her apron pocket without reading it, her fingers closing around it like a talisman. All her careful planning, all her meticulous preparation for Duke, suddenly seemed rigid and incomplete compared to this unexpected opening into something she hadn’t allowed herself to imagine: connection with someone who might actually see her—not the pastor’s daughter, not the obedient Christian girl, but her.

After her shift ended, as she counted her tips in the break room, she finally allowed herself to examine the small piece of paper. Below the phone number, he had written a simple message:

Reality is worth talking about. —D

A reference to the Dawkins book title. A private joke. An acknowledgment of what they had silently recognized in each other.

Meghan carefully folded the paper and tucked it into her sock, the safest place to hide small objects when returning to her father’s house. The Duke acceptance letter still waited beneath her floorboard. Her careful countdown—nine months, now eight months and twenty-nine days—still ticked in her mind.

But as she walked home through the August afternoon, the weight of that small paper against her ankle felt like a second option taking shape—an alternate route she hadn’t mapped, hadn’t planned for, hadn’t even considered possible.

For the first time since she’d begun plotting her escape, Meghan allowed herself to wonder if freedom might have a face, a voice, a name. If it might be found not just in the distant promise of a university campus, but in the unexpected connection with someone who read the same forbidden books and looked at her as though her mind were something to be discovered rather than contained.

The thought was exhilarating.

The thought was terrifying.

The thought was impossible to dismiss.

Chapter 7

The morning air held a whisper of autumn as Meghan walked briskly along the Greenway Trail, her heart drumming against her ribs. She’d manufactured a trip to the library, telling Mama B she needed to research a paper on American transcendentalism. Her mother had nodded with that barely perceptible smile that spoke volumes between them—Be careful, be smart, be back by noon.

Instead of heading directly to the secluded meeting spot Darren had suggested, Meghan chose the busiest section of the trail near the community playground. She’d arrived fifteen minutes early to scout the area, positioned herself on a bench with clear sightlines in all directions, and kept her backpack on her lap—ready to leave at the first sign of trouble.

Meghan checked her watch. 9:07 AM. She was twenty-three minutes early to their agreed meeting time, which gave her ample opportunity to rehearse exactly what she would and wouldn’t say. The voice in her head that sounded suspiciously like her father was particularly loud today: Deceitful woman, walking in the way of Eve.

She unzipped her backpack, extracting her dog-eared copy of Emerson’s essays, and opened to a passage she’d highlighted in pale yellow, faint enough that Papa Mel wouldn’t notice if he conducted one of his “room inspections.” “Nothing is at last sacred but the integrity of your own mind.” Her fingers traced the words, drawing strength from them as she had so many times before.

“You know, I think that’s the essay that first made me question everything.”

Darren’s voice startled her. He stood a few feet away, wearing jeans and a faded Auburn sweatshirt, his dark hair slightly disheveled. There was something disarming about him—the way he looked directly at her without the veil of performance she was accustomed to seeing in church interactions.

“Sorry,” he added. “Didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

“You’re early,” she said, instinctively scanning the area around them. A young mother pushed a stroller nearby, and an elderly couple walked their golden retriever along the path. Public. Safe. Still, she closed the book but kept her finger marking the page. “And yes, ‘Self-Reliance’ was… transformative for me too.” The word felt dangerous on her tongue, an admission of intellectual rebellion.

“I suggested the quiet spot by the creek bend,” Darren said, noticing her choice of location. “But this works too.”

“I prefer to be where people can see us,” Meghan replied carefully. “At least for now.”

Darren nodded, seeming to understand without taking offense. “Smart. I’d do the same in your position.”

Darren sat beside her, leaving a respectable distance between them. “Shall we walk? Still plenty of people on the main trail.”

The trail curved ahead of them, dappled sunlight filtering through the trees. They fell into step together, following the path as it wound alongside the creek. For several minutes, they walked in silence, and Meghan was surprised to find it comfortable rather than awkward.

“So,” she finally ventured, “how does someone who works at a steel company end up reading Emerson?”

Darren smiled. “I’m from Mountain Brook, Alabama. My dad’s an executive with Vulcan Materials, and my mom’s a homemaker involved with several charities. Growing up, our house was filled with books. Mom’s a voracious reader and passed that on to me. I’m studying engineering at Auburn now, in their Co-op program.” He gestured to his sweatshirt. “Hence the Auburn gear. How about you? I’m guessing Emerson isn’t on the approved reading list at your church.”

“No one book is explicitly forbidden, except maybe Darwin,” Meghan said cautiously. “It’s more that free thinking itself is discouraged. Questions are… problematic.”

“And yet you ask them anyway,” Darren observed.

Meghan felt a sharp pang of wariness. “I found him in a box of books Mrs. Whitaker kept in the back room of the restaurant for employees. She… noticed things.”

“What things?”

Meghan hesitated. She’d already shared more with this near stranger than anyone except Mrs. Whitaker and her mother. “Why are you interested in talking to me, Darren? Really?” she asked instead of answering his question.

He seemed taken aback by her directness. “Honestly? Because when you talked about Thoreau yesterday, your whole face lit up. It’s rare to meet someone so passionate about ideas.” He paused. “And maybe because you remind me of my cousin Rachel. She grew up in a strict religious household too. It took her years to… find her way out.”

This caught Meghan’s attention. “What happened to her?”

“She’s doing great now. Teaching high school literature in Birmingham. But it was a rough journey.”

Meghan nodded, weighing his words. The comparison to his cousin felt genuine, giving her a small measure of reassurance.

“That I was hungry. Not for food.” Meghan hesitated, then decided to test the water. “That I was suffocating.”

Darren nodded; his expression serious. “And your father is the pastor, right? That can’t be easy.”

“Pastor Mel Orr of Mount Olive Baptist Church,” she confirmed, unable to keep the edge from her voice. “Shepherd of the flock and absolute authority in our household.”

“Yet here you are, reading Emerson and meeting a stranger on the Greenway.”

“Here I am,” she agreed softly, then added, “though you’re not exactly a stranger anymore.”

“Almost, though,” she corrected herself. “We’ve spoken for all of twenty minutes, including yesterday.”

The trail widened as they approached a wooden footbridge that arched over the creek. Darren paused at its center, leaning against the railing to watch the water below. Meghan stood beside him, maintaining a careful distance, aware that they were still visible to others on the main trail but more secluded than before.

“I have a scholarship to Duke,” she said suddenly. “Full ride. I leave next August.”

Darren turned to face her; surprise evident in his expression. “That’s incredible. Congratulations.”

“Thank you. My father doesn’t know.” The admission hung between them, heavy with implication.

“I see.” His voice was gentle, free of judgment. “That’s why you were so startled when I mentioned the philosophy section at the bookstore. You’re worried about someone finding out.”

“My whole life is compartmentalized,” Meghan said. “There’s the pastor’s daughter everyone sees, and then there’s… me. The real me.” She gestured to the book in her hand. “The me who reads this and dreams of escaping.”

“Duke is a solid escape plan.” There was something in his tone—admiration, perhaps, but also a question.

Meghan noticed the question in his voice but chose not to address it directly. “What about you? How long are you in Boone for your co-op program?”

“That’s the other thing I wanted to tell you. I’m not actually just passing through Boone for a few days.”

“You’re not?”

“I’m back for my Co-op rotation with Vulcan—part of my Auburn engineering program. They’ve assigned me to oversee some of the regulatory compliance work here in Boone for the next six months.” He turned back to her. “I wasn’t planning to stay beyond that, but now I’m… reconsidering.”

Meghan felt a flutter of something dangerous in her chest—interest mingled with caution. “Six months is a long time to be away from school.”

“That’s how co-op works. Alternate semesters between classes and work experience. I’ll go back to campus in January.” He seemed to realize the implication of his words. “I’m not suggesting anything, Meghan. I just… enjoyed talking with you yesterday. Thought maybe we could be friends.”

The word ‘friends’ both relieved and disappointed her, though she wasn’t ready to examine why. “Friends,” she repeated, testing the word. “I don’t have many of those. Not real ones.”

“Me neither, surprisingly,” Darren admitted. “Plenty of classmates, teammates, but few people I can really talk to about things that matter.”

Meghan studied him, weighing his words against a lifetime of learned suspicion. There was an earnestness in his eyes that resonated with something deep within her—a recognition of kindred spirits.

“Can I tell you something I’ve never said out loud?” she asked, her voice barely audible over the burbling creek.

“Of course.”

“Sometimes I think God made a mistake giving me to the Orrs. That there was a cosmic mix-up, and I was meant to be born into a family where questions weren’t sins and knowledge wasn’t dangerous.” She held her breath, waiting for the judgment that always followed such heretical thoughts.

Instead, Darren nodded slowly. “I don’t think God makes mistakes. But I do think sometimes the universe creates… corrections.” He gestured between them. “Maybe this is one.”

Meghan shifted uncomfortably, suddenly aware of how much she’d revealed. “I should be more careful. I hardly know you.”

“You’re right,” Darren agreed, surprising her. “We should both be careful. You have a lot at stake.”

They resumed walking, the conversation shifting to books they’d read, ideas they’d contemplated. Meghan found herself speaking more freely than usual, though still filtering her thoughts through a screen of caution. Darren seemed to sense her boundaries, never pushing for more than she offered.

When they reached a small clearing where the path branched off in two directions, they paused by a trail map where wildflowers still bloomed despite the advancing season.

“I have a lot to lose,” Meghan said finally, returning to her earlier caution. “If my father finds out about…” She gestured vaguely between them.

“About me,” Darren supplied. “About us talking.”

“He could lock me down completely. No job at the restaurant, no library access, no chance to save more money for Duke.” She twisted the strap of her backpack. “But there’s something else.”

“What’s that?”

“I’ve spent eighteen years learning how to be invisible in plain sight. It’s exhausting, but it’s kept me safe.” She met his eyes directly. “I can’t afford to trust too quickly, Darren. Not with eight months to go before Duke.”

“I understand,” he said simply. “Trust takes time.”

“Yes, it does.” Meghan glanced at her watch. “I should head back soon.”

“Before you go,” Darren said, “I want you to know that I’m not looking to complicate your life. But if you decide you want to talk again—about books, ideas, whatever—I’ll be around.”

Darren didn’t move closer, but his expression softened. “No pressure. No expectations. Just an open door if you want it.”

“How would I even contact you?” she asked, not committing but not refusing either.

“We create our own rules. Meet in places where you’re safe from observation. Use the Whitakers as allies. I follow your lead on everything—timing, communication, boundaries.” He pulled a small notebook from his pocket and wrote something down. “This is my number at the Daniel Boone. I’m staying in one of the upstairs rooms—Mr. Whitaker arranged it through my dad. Dad thought it would be good for me to experience ‘the real world’ instead of some corporate apartment. The phone is in my room, and only I answer it.”

Meghan took the paper, looking at it for a long moment before folding it carefully and slipping it into her book. “I might be able to call from the payphone at the library sometimes. Or maybe Mrs. Whitaker would let me use the restaurant phone during a break. I don’t know if I will, though.”

“That’s completely fine,” he assured her. “Balls in your court.”

The weight of the decision settled over Meghan. Unlike most choices in her life, this one was truly hers to make—no coercion, no manipulation, just the freedom to decide. It was both liberating and terrifying.

“I should head back,” she said, checking her watch. “I told Mama B I’d be home by noon.”

“Can I walk you part of the way?”

“To the trailhead,” she decided. “That should be safe.”

They walked back in companionable silence, keeping a respectable distance between them. When they reached the bench where they’d started, Meghan paused.

“I’ll think about what you said,” she told him, her voice measured and cautious. “About being friends.”

Darren nodded. “I’ll be at the restaurant for dinner on Tuesday. I always eat there in the evenings after work. If you’re working and can talk, great. If not, I’ll just have my usual burger and leave you alone.”

“Tuesday,” she acknowledged, neither promising nor refusing. “I work until closing.”

“And Meghan?” he added as she turned to leave.

“Yes?”

“Whatever you decide, your Duke plan is solid. Don’t let anything, or anyone, jeopardize that.”

His words surprised her. Most people in her life demanded commitment, loyalty, obedience. No one had ever encouraged her independence quite so directly.

“Thank you for that,” she said quietly.

“Freedom isn’t really freedom if it comes with impossible choices,” he said simply.

As Meghan walked away, her mind was already calculating risks and possibilities, imagining the logistics of whether this potential friendship was worth the risk. But beneath the practical considerations, a new feeling was taking root—not the desperate hope of escape that had sustained her for years, but something warmer, more immediate. For the first time, she was considering pursuing something for its own value, not just as a means of getting away.

Nothing is at last sacred but the integrity of your own mind.

With each step toward home, Meghan felt her resolve strengthening. This wasn’t necessarily a detour from her path to freedom, it might be an unexplored branch of the same journey. She would take her time, proceed with caution, and decide deliberately whether to follow it.

Chapter 8

Meghan stood in the Whitakers’ small office behind the restaurant kitchen, her fingers trembling slightly as she dialed the unfamiliar number. The sound of dishes clattering and muffled kitchen instructions filtered through the wall. She glanced at the clock, 5:37 PM. Three minutes until her break officially ended.

“Hello?” Darren’s voice came through the receiver, slightly distorted but undeniably his.

“It’s me,” Meghan said, unconsciously lowering her voice despite the closed door. “I can talk for about two minutes.”

“Meghan.” The way he said her name made her chest tighten. “I wasn’t sure you’d call.”

“I said I would.” She wound the phone cord around her finger, an unexpected smile forming. “Mrs. Whitaker let me use the office phone.”

“So, they know? About us talking?”

Meghan hesitated. “Not everything. Just that we’re… friends. She thinks I’m calling about a school project.”

The lie had come easily that afternoon when she’d asked Mrs. Whitaker if she could use the phone during her break. Another small deception to add to the growing collection. Meghan had never been a liar before Darren, yet now falsehoods rolled off her tongue with alarming ease.

“I’ve been thinking about our walk all week,” Darren said. “The way you described escaping through books—it reminded me of something my mother always says.”

“What’s that?”

“That the right book at the right time is like finding a door in a wall you thought was solid.”

Meghan closed her eyes, savoring the words. “I like that. Your mother sounds nothing like mine.”

“Every family has its complications,” Darren said diplomatically. “Even mine.”

A comfortable silence stretched between them, and Meghan found herself wishing she could see his face—the thoughtful expression he wore when choosing his words carefully, the slight furrow between his brows.

“There’s something I need to ask,” she said finally, her voice dropping even lower. “About Saturday. How do we—”

A sharp knock at the door made her jump.

“Just a minute,” she called, then whispered urgently into the phone. “I have to go. But there’s a trail behind the Methodist church. The one on Howard Street? It connects to the greenway. I could meet you there at noon.”

“I’ll be there,” Darren promised. “Same spot as before?”

“No, too risky. There’s a wooden bench about a quarter mile in, next to a big oak tree. I’ll wait there.”

“Meghan?” Mrs. Whitaker’s voice came through the door.

“I’ll find it,” Darren said. “Be careful.”

“You too.”

Meghan hung up the phone and took a deep breath, composing her features into the pleasant, unremarkable expression she’d perfected over years of hiding her thoughts from her father. When she opened the door, Mrs. Whitaker stood there with a knowing look that made Meghan wonder just how transparent her “school project” excuse had been.

“Sorry, I lost track of time,” Meghan said, smoothing her apron.

“Table 12 needs their check,” Mrs. Whitaker replied, but her eyes were kind. “And your father just pulled into the parking lot. He’s early tonight.”

A cold wave washed through Meghan’s body. “He’s supposed to be at a deacons’ meeting until seven.”

“Well, he’s here now. He’s waiting at the counter.” Mrs. Whitaker hesitated. “I can tell him you’re in the back helping Mr. Whitaker with inventory if you need a minute.”

Meghan shook her head. “No, that would just make him suspicious. Thank you, though.”

As she walked through the swinging kitchen doors into the dining area, Meghan’s mind raced. Why was Mel here early? Had someone seen her and Darren on the trail last Saturday? Had she said something in her sleep? Left some evidence in her room?

Mel sat at the counter, his Bible placed prominently beside him like a shield or a warning. He was talking with Jack Simmons, one of the church elders, their heads bent close in conversation that stopped abruptly when they noticed her.

“Meghan,” her father said, his voice carrying that peculiar blend of public warmth and private command. “I finished early and thought I’d give you a ride home rather than have your mother come out again.”

“That’s thoughtful of you,” Meghan said, the practiced response automatic. “I still have an hour on my shift.”

“I’ve already spoken with Mr. Whitaker. He says they’re slow tonight and can manage without you.”

Elder Simmons nodded at her, his smile not reaching his eyes. “Your father was just telling me about your Duke scholarship opportunity. What a blessing for a young woman with your… intellect.”

The way he paused made the compliment feel like an accusation.

“Yes, sir. I’m grateful for the opportunity.” Meghan kept her voice neutral, avoiding her father’s gaze.

“Of course, there are excellent Christian colleges that would provide a more nurturing environment for a pastor’s daughter,” Elder Simmons continued. “I was just mentioning Liberty to your father.”

So that’s what this was about. Another attempt to redirect her future toward their approved path. Meghan felt a flicker of relief—this wasn’t about Darren after all—followed immediately by the familiar frustration.

“I haven’t made any decisions yet,” she said, which was true only in the most technical sense. In her heart, she’d decided long ago.

“Well, there’s time yet,” her father said, standing and picking up his Bible. “Go get your things, Meghan. Your mother has dinner waiting.”

As Meghan went to the back room to collect her bag, her mind returned to Darren. Saturday suddenly seemed very far away. The restaurant had been her sanctuary, a place where she could exist beyond her father’s constant surveillance. Now he was here, diminishing even this small freedom.

But the memory of Darren’s voice, the plans they’d made, gave her a sense of buoyancy. For the first time in her life, Meghan had something entirely her own, a connection her father couldn’t control or corrupt with his twisted interpretations of scripture.

She touched her pocket where she’d written down Darren’s phone number, feeling the slight crease in the paper through the fabric. A tenuous connection, but real. A promise of something beyond Mount Olive and her father’s suffocating version of faith.

“Meghan!” Her father’s voice carried from the front.

“Coming,” she called back, straightening her shoulders.

She could endure tonight’s inevitable scripture reading and pointed questions about her college applications. She could weather the coming Sunday services and her father’s searching glances.

Because on Saturday, she would see Darren again. And in that thought was freedom that Mel Orr, for all his surveillance and scripture, couldn’t touch.

Chapter 9

The annual Mount Olive Baptist Church picnic stretched across the wide lawn behind the sanctuary, a tableau of Southern Baptist propriety that Meghan could have sketched from memory. Folding tables draped with checkered cloths sagged under the weight of casseroles and fried chicken. Children darted between adults, their Sunday clothes already bearing evidence of spilled lemonade and grass stains. Women gathered around the dessert table, exchanging recipes and gentle gossip, while men stood in small groups discussing football, church finances, and the moral decline of America—all with equal conviction.

Meghan methodically filled paper plates with potato salad, baked beans, and Sister Martha’s famous deviled eggs, working the food line with Leanne Tuttle, her assigned partner for picnic duty. Leanne’s running commentary on which families took too much food provided the perfect cover for Meghan’s periodic glances at her watch.

Twelve minutes until she needed to make her move.

Yesterday’s meeting with Darren on the trail behind the Methodist church had only intensified her longing to see him again. They’d spent two precious hours talking about everything and nothing, his engineering studies, her college aspirations, favorite books, childhood memories. When they parted, the promise of “see you tomorrow” had carried her through the evening service and her father’s particularly pointed sermon on the dangers of worldly influences.

“Earth to Meghan.” Leanne nudged her with an elbow. “Mrs. Farrow asked if you want to help with Vacation Bible School next summer. After you get back from whatever fancy Christian college your daddy picks.”

Mrs. Farrow, the Sunday School director, peered at Meghan expectantly over her bifocals. “We could use your organizational skills, dear. The theme is ‘Fishers of Men.'”

Meghan assembled her pastor’s-daughter smile. “That sounds wonderful, Mrs. Farrow. Let me check my calendar when college schedules come out.”

The non-commitment seemed to satisfy the older woman, who moved down the line murmuring about arthritic knees and the humidity. Meghan felt a twinge of guilt for the deception. Mrs. Farrow had always shown her genuine kindness, unlike many church members who valued her only as an extension of her father.

“Your daddy’s looking really serious with those men,” Leanne observed, nodding toward the oak tree where Mel stood with Elder Wilson and two deacons.

Mel gestured emphatically as he spoke, his Bible held loosely in one hand. Elder Wilson nodded with grave importance; his arms folded across his chest. Meghan recognized the posture—her father was holding court, not conversing.

“Probably discussing the missionary budget,” Meghan said, though she strongly suspected they were talking about the “homosexual agenda” again. It had been Mel’s favorite topic since the Supreme Court ruling on Lawrence v. Texas two years ago.

She checked her watch again. Ten minutes.

“I need to use the restroom,” Meghan told Leanne. “Can you handle the line for a few minutes?”

Without waiting for an answer, Meghan slipped away from the food table and walked purposefully toward the church building. She felt Mama B’s eyes on her back as she passed the women’s circle, but didn’t turn. Her mother would understand, even if she didn’t know the specifics.

Instead of entering the church through the main doors, Meghan circled around to the education wing, where a side entrance led to the classrooms. The building was empty, everyone having migrated outside for the picnic. Her footsteps echoed in the silent hallway as she made her way to her father’s office.

The door was unlocked, Mel never locked it, considering the entire church his domain. Meghan slipped inside and went directly to the storage closet where the church maintenance supplies were kept. She grabbed a roll of paper towels and bottle of glass cleaner, props for her alibi if anyone questioned her presence.

From her father’s office, a narrow back staircase led down to the basement and out to a seldom-used door on the far side of the building. Meghan descended the stairs quickly, her heart beginning to race with the thrill of calculated risk.

She had timed this carefully. At precisely 1:30, the youth pastor would organize the teenagers for volleyball, capturing everyone’s attention. Her father would be deep in theological discussions with the elders. Mama B would be helping serve dessert. No one would notice her absence for at least twenty minutes, and if they did, the cleaning supplies would provide her excuse.

The basement door squeaked slightly as she pushed it open, and Meghan froze, listening to any response. Nothing. She stepped outside into the narrow strip of shade behind the church, closed the door behind her, and began walking briskly toward the tree line at the edge of the property.

Twenty feet into the woods, partially hidden by an ancient oak, Darren waited.

“You made it,” he said, his face breaking into a smile that made her breath catch.

“Right on schedule.” She glanced back toward the church. “I have about fifteen minutes before anyone might come looking.”

“Then we’d better make them count.” Darren took her hand, and they moved deeper into the woods along a barely visible trail. “I found this path yesterday while you were showing me the trail behind the Methodist church. It leads to a small clearing about five minutes from here.”

Meghan’s pulse quickened. The danger of discovery, the warmth of Darren’s hand around hers, the dappled sunlight filtering through the leaves, everything felt heightened, vibrant in a way her carefully controlled life at Mount Olive never did.

“This is far more reckless than yesterday,” she said, but couldn’t suppress her smile.

“Calculated risk,” Darren corrected, guiding her around a fallen log. “We’re being smart about it.”

“Smart would be meeting somewhere miles from the church.”

“But not as poetic.” Darren’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “There’s something satisfying about finding freedom right under their noses.”

The truth of his observation struck her. This wasn’t just about seeing Darren; it was about carving out space for herself within the confines of her controlled existence. Every step into these woods was an act of self-assertion, a small rebellion against her father’s authority.

They reached the clearing, a modest open space where sunlight broke through the canopy to illuminate a carpet of fallen leaves and scattered wildflowers. Darren had brought a small blanket, which he spread on a relatively flat spot beneath a towering hickory tree.

“Your throne, m’lady,” he said with exaggerated formality, gesturing to the blanket.

Meghan laughed as she sat down, crossing her legs beneath her Sunday dress. “Fifteen minutes to sit on the ground and get my clothes dirty. My father would have a stroke.”

“Is it worth it?” Darren asked, suddenly serious as he sat beside her.

Meghan looked at him—really looked at him. At the genuine curiosity in his blue eyes, the slight nervousness in his posture, the care he’d taken to create this moment for them.

“Yes,” she said simply.

They sat in a comfortable silence for a moment, listening to the distant sounds of the picnic filtering through the trees, punctuated by bird calls and the rustling of leaves.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said yesterday,” Darren said finally. “About feeling like your father’s faith is suffocating you.”

Meghan tensed slightly. Religious discussions were fraught territory for her.

“I’m not going to try to convince you of anything,” he added quickly, reading her expression. “That’s not what this is. I just wanted to say that I understand searching for your own answers. My parents are nominally Baptist, but mostly just for the social connections. I’ve been trying to figure out what I actually believe for years.”

“And have you?” Meghan asked, genuinely curious.

Darren shrugged. “I’m still working on it. But I think that’s the point—it’s supposed to be a journey, not a destination someone else picks for you.”

The simplicity of his perspective was like cool water after a lifetime of thirst. No judgment, no pressure. Just acknowledgment of her right to seek her own path.

“What’s your favorite book?” Darren asked, changing subjects. “We didn’t get to that yesterday.”

The question caught Meghan off guard. “That’s like asking which breath of air I prefer.”

“Okay, too broad,” he laughed. “What book made you feel most understood?”

Meghan didn’t hesitate. “Jane Eyre. I read it when I was fourteen, hidden under my covers with a flashlight. Something about her determination to honor her own principles even when it meant walking away from what she wanted most—I felt that in my bones.”

“I can see that in you,” Darren said softly. “That same quiet strength.”

Their eyes locked, and Meghan felt a magnetic pull between them, as if some invisible forces were drawing them together. Without conscious thought, she leaned toward him slightly.

A piercing whistle from the direction of the church jolted them both.

“The volleyball game must be starting,” Meghan said, her heart suddenly racing for a different reason. “I need to get back.”

They stood quickly, Darren folding the blanket with efficient movements. “Tuesday at the library, like we planned yesterday?”

“Yes,” Meghan agreed, brushing leaves from her dress. “I told my mother I’m researching colleges.”

“Technically true,” Darren said with a half-smile. “I have plenty of Auburn brochures to share.”

Meghan hesitated, then made a decision. Before she could overthink it, she stepped forward and kissed him—a brief, soft press of her lips against his cheek. His skin was warm, and she caught the clean scent of his aftershave.

“Thank you for this,” she whispered, then turned and hurried back toward the path.

Darren stood motionless for a moment, his hand rising to touch the spot where her lips had been. Then he called after her, a voice low but carrying: “Worth the risk.”

“Worth the risk,” Meghan repeated to herself as she retraced her steps through the woods, clutching the cleaning supplies she’d almost forgotten. Her heart felt too large for her chest, filled with a wild, unfamiliar joy that threatened to spill out in laughter or tears or both.

She emerged from the basement door, carefully checking that no one was watching before slipping back into the education wing. As she returned the cleaning supplies to the closet in her father’s office, Meghan caught sight of her reflection in the small mirror on the wall. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright in a way that might draw attention.

Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes and mentally reconstructed her pastor’s-daughter mask—composed, pleasant, unremarkable. When she opened them again, the mirror showed the Meghan everyone at Mount Olive expected to see.

But beneath that careful facade, something had fundamentally changed. She had taken a risk—small, but significant—and discovered not just the thrill of secret rebellion, but the profound pleasure of connection with someone who saw her clearly and valued what he saw.

As she made her way back to the picnic, rejoining Leanne at the nearly empty food table with a murmured excuse about cleaning up a spill, Meghan felt the weight of her double life settling more firmly onto her shoulders. It should have felt heavier, more burdensome.

Instead, she felt buoyant, as if the pull of gravity had somehow lessened.

For those precious fifteen minutes in the woods with Darren, she had been fully herself, no pretense, no careful self-editing, no fear. And having tasted that freedom, Meghan knew with absolute certainty that she would risk far more experiencing it again.

Chapter 10

Sunlight filtered through the stained glass windows of Mount Olive Baptist Church, casting jewel-toned patterns across the worn hymnal in Meghan’s hands. She sat in her usual place—third pew from the front, far right side—her posture perfect, her face a careful mask of attentive reverence. Four weeks of secret meetings with Darren had made her an even more accomplished actress than before.

The congregation around her shifted restlessly as Mel Orr’s sermon entered its forty-fifth minute. Meghan had mastered the art of appearing completely engaged while her mind wandered elsewhere. Today, she was mentally reviewing her chemistry notes for tomorrow’s test, occasionally nodding as if in agreement with her father’s words.

“…and so we turn now to Second Corinthians, chapter six, verses fourteen through fifteen,” Mel’s voice boomed across the sanctuary. “‘Be ye not unequally yoked together with unbelievers: for what fellowship hath righteousness with unrighteousness? and what communion hath light with darkness? And what concord hath Christ with Belial? or what part hath he that believeth with an infidel?'”

Something in her father’s tone pulled Meghan sharply back to the present. She looked up from her hymnal to find Mel staring directly at her, his eyes narrowed with focused intensity that made her blood run cold.

“The Lord speaks clearly here, beloved,” Mel continued, his gaze sweeping across the congregation but returning to Meghan with alarming frequency. “We are not to bind ourselves to those who reject the truth of God’s Word. The unbeliever seeks to corrupt the believer, to draw them away from the path of righteousness.”

Meghan’s heart began to race. It wasn’t unusual for her father to preach against “worldly relationships,” but there was something targeted about today’s message that set alarm bells ringing in her mind.

“Young people especially,” Mel emphasized, his voice dropping to a grave register that the congregation recognized as his most serious teaching tone, “must guard against forming attachments with those who do not share their faith. These relationships may begin innocently enough—a friendship, a study partnership, even a seemingly harmless infatuation.”

The word “infatuation” landed like a stone in Meghan’s stomach. Her fingers tightened around the hymnal until her knuckles whitened.

“But Satan is clever in his deceptions,” Mel continued. “He sends those who appear kind, thoughtful, even respectful of your beliefs. They may not openly mock your faith. They may listen patiently, nodding along as if understanding. But make no mistake—the unequally yoked relationship leads only one direction: downward.”

Meghan forced herself to breathe normally, though her chest felt constricted. Her father couldn’t know about Darren. They had been so careful. Yet the specificity of his examples felt too precise to be coincidental.

“I have counseled many young women,” Mel’s voice softened with feigned compassion, “who believed they could maintain their faith while dating non-believers. They convinced themselves they might even lead these young men to Christ. Instead, they found their own faith eroded, their moral standards compromised, their relationship with the Lord damaged—perhaps irreparably.”

Meghan felt the weight of dozens of eyes turning toward her. As the pastor’s daughter, she was the natural reference point for any sermon directed at the church’s young women. She kept her face composed, though shame and fear coursed through her veins. Not shame for her relationship with Darren, but shame at being the object of this public spectacle, fear that her precious secret had been discovered.

“The path seems pleasant at first,” Mel warned, his voice rising again. “Exciting conversations, shared interests, the thrill of new experiences. But those who walk this path find themselves making small compromises, telling small lies, hiding their activities from those who love them most.”

A hot flush spread across Meghan’s cheeks. She fixed her eyes on the page before her, though the printed words blurred together.

“And what is the end of such a relationship?” Mel thundered, slamming his hand against the pulpit. “Spiritual destruction! ‘What communion hath light with darkness?’ None! There can be no true communion when one walks in the light of God’s truth and the other in darkness.”

The sermon continued for another fifteen minutes, each word driving deeper into Meghan’s consciousness. By the time the closing hymn began, her hands were trembling so badly she could barely hold the hymnal. As the congregation filed out, she maintained her composure through years of practiced discipline, smiling and nodding to church members who complimented her father’s powerful message.

“Quite a sermon today,” Mrs. Parker murmured as she passed, giving Meghan’s arm a gentle squeeze that felt like both sympathy and warning.

Mrs. Parker was the church librarian, a quiet widow who had always shown Meghan kindness, sneaking appropriate fiction titles onto the otherwise strictly religious shelves. Had she noticed something? Had someone seen Meghan with Darren? The thought sent a wave of nausea through Meghan’s body.

“Meghan,” her father’s voice came from behind her. “A word before lunch.”

She turned to find Mel standing with Elder Wilson, both men regarding her with calculated scrutiny.

“Brother Wilson was just saying what a blessing it is to have a daughter who exemplifies Christian values for the other young people,” Mel said, his eyes never leaving her face. “I told him you’ve always been discerning about your associations.”

“Thank you, Daddy,” Meghan replied, the childhood name slipping out as it always did when she felt threatened. “Elder Wilson.”

“Your father’s sermon today was exactly what this congregation needs,” Wilson said, his thin lips barely moving as he spoke. “Too many of our young people are being led astray by worldly influences. But I’m sure you don’t have that problem, being raised with such solid biblical teaching.”

It wasn’t a question, but Meghan heard the expectation of a response. “I’m very grateful for my father’s guidance,” she said carefully.

“Good girl,” Mel said with a tight smile. “We’ll be leaving shortly. Go find your mother and tell her we’ll be ready to go in ten minutes. Elder Wilson and I have some church business to discuss.”

Meghan nodded and walked away, her legs feeling strangely disconnected from her body. The drive home and Sunday lunch passed in a blur, with Mel continuing to expound on the themes from his sermon. By the time she escaped to her room, claiming homework, Meghan felt physically ill.

She sat at her desk, staring at her chemistry textbook without seeing it. Her father’s words echoed in her mind, amplified by seventeen years of religious conditioning. What if he was right? What if her relationship with Darren was a spiritual trap? She’d been deceiving her parents, sneaking around, breaking rules she’d been taught were God’s unchangeable laws.

Worse, she’d been questioning the very foundation of her family’s faith. Darren had never pushed her toward atheism—had never pushed her toward anything—but their conversations had opened doors to questions she’d previously kept locked away. Was that corruption? Was she being drawn away from truth, as her father claimed?

The doubts multiplied, feeding on each other until Meghan felt suffocated by confusion. She reached for her phone to call the Daniel Boone Restaurant with some excuse to cancel Tuesday’s library meeting with Darren, then stopped. If her father suspected something, any unusual phone call might confirm his suspicions. The Whitakers had been enabling her secret meetings by providing cover stories and messages but involving them now seemed too risky.

Instead, she opened her notebook to a fresh page and began writing a letter she had no way to send.

Darren,

I can’t see you anymore. My father’s sermon today made me realize how dishonest I’ve been—with my parents, with the church, with myself. I’ve been living a double life, and I can’t continue this way. The guilt is too much.

These past weeks have been wonderful, but I need to focus on my spiritual well-being. Maybe my father is right that relationships like ours can only lead to compromise and pain.

I’m sorry. Meghan

She stared at the words, feeling their finality like a physical ache. Then, with deliberate movements, she tore the page from her notebook, folded it precisely, and tucked it into her chemistry textbook. Tomorrow, she will find some way to get it to Darren.

__________

Tuesday afternoon found Meghan in the Boone Public Library, seated at her usual table near the biography section, her textbooks spread around her. She’d wrestled with her decision for two days, the letter burning a hole in her backpack. Part of her—the part shaped by seventeen years of her father’s teachings—felt righteous certainty about ending things with Darren. Another part felt like she was amputating a limb.

She checked her watch. 4:15. Time enough to place the letter prominently on the table, gather her things, and leave before he arrives. Darren would arrive in fifteen minutes, assuming he kept to their usual schedule. His co-op program at Vulcan Materials allowed him to leave work early on Tuesdays for what his supervisor believed was a mentoring program at the local high school. Another deception woven into their relationship, another strand of guilt in the tapestry of her doubt.

As she reached for her backpack, a familiar figure appeared at the end of the aisle, fifteen minutes early. Darren walked toward her, his smile fading as he registered her expression.

“What’s wrong?” he asked quietly, sliding into the chair across from her.

The letter sat in her bag, suddenly impossible to retrieve. “My father’s sermon on Sunday,” she began, her voice barely above a whisper. “It was about being ‘unequally yoked.’ About relationships between believers and non-believers.”

Understanding dawned in Darren’s eyes. “He knows about us?”

“I don’t think so. Not specifically. But he suspects something.” Meghan’s hands fidgeted with her pencil. “It felt like he was speaking directly to me.”

Darren nodded slowly. “And now you’re thinking we should stop seeing each other.”

The simple accuracy of his assessment made her chest tighten. “I wrote you a letter,” she confessed. “I was going to leave it here and go before you arrived.”

“May I see it?”

Meghan hesitated, then reached into her bag and handed him the folded paper. She watched his face as he read, searching for anger or hurt, but his expression remained thoughtful.

When he finished, he carefully refolded the letter and placed it on the table between them. “What do you want, Meghan?” he asked gently. “Not what your father wants. Not what you think God wants. What do you want?”

The question startled her. No one had ever asked her that before—not directly, not as if her answer mattered.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I just know I feel guilty for lying. For sneaking around.”

“That’s fair,” Darren said. “The situation forces dishonesty, and dishonesty feels wrong. But that’s separate from whether our relationship itself is wrong.”

He was silent for a moment, choosing his words carefully. “I respect your faith, Meghan, even the parts of it you’re questioning. But I wonder if your father’s interpretation of that verse might be… selective.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I’m not a biblical scholar,” Darren said with a small smile, “but I did some reading after our conversations about your church. That passage is often used to warn Christians against marrying non-believers, but historically, it was addressing much broader concerns about the early church maintaining its identity while surrounded by pagan practices.”

Meghan blinked in surprise. Darren had been researching her faith tradition.

“The context matters,” he continued. “When Paul wrote that letter, Christians were a tiny minority living in a Greco-Roman world full of idol worship and radically different ethical systems. He wasn’t necessarily talking about two people with different views on faith having conversations or caring about each other.”

“You’ve been studying theology?” Meghan asked, momentarily distracted from her turmoil.

Darren shrugged, looking slightly embarrassed. “I wanted to understand where you’re coming from. And honestly, the history of religion is fascinating, even from a secular perspective.”

The gesture touched something deep in Meghan’s heart. While her father had been preaching against hypothetical corrupting influences, Darren had been trying to understand her world, to speak her language.

“I don’t want to pressure you,” Darren said after a moment. “If you decide this is too difficult or too risky, I’ll respect that. But I hope you’ll make that decision based on what you truly believe, not out of fear or guilt.”

“What if I don’t know what I truly believe anymore?” Meghan whispered, voicing the question that had haunted her for years.

“Then maybe that’s okay too,” Darren replied. “Maybe not knowing is better than clinging to certainties that don’t feel right to you.”

They sat in silence, the soft sounds of the library around them—pages turning, keyboards clicking, the occasional whispered conversation. Meghan stared at the letter on the table, the words inside now seeming less like conviction and more like capitulation.

“I don’t want to stop seeing you,” she said finally, surprising herself with the certainty in her voice. “But I’m afraid.”

“Of your father finding out?”

“Yes. And…” She struggled to articulate the deeper fear. “What if this isn’t just about having a boyfriend my father wouldn’t approve of? What if it’s the first step toward leaving everything I’ve been taught? My family, my church, my community—they’re all I’ve ever known.”

Darren reached across the table, his hand hovering over hers without touching, respecting the public setting. “That’s a lot bigger than whether we keep meeting at the library,” he said. “Those are questions you’d eventually face with or without me.”

“But you make me brave enough to ask them,” Meghan confessed. “And that terrifies me.”

“For what it’s worth,” Darren said softly, “I think courage suits you better than fear.”

Meghan looked at him—really looked at him. At the patience in his eyes, the careful respect in his posture, the genuine concern in his expression. This was not the corrupting influence her father had described from the pulpit. This was someone who valued her thoughts, her questions, her autonomy.

She picked up the letter and deliberately tore it in half, then in quarters. “I’m staying,” she said, tucking the pieces into her backpack. “But we need to be more careful.”

Relief washed over Darren’s face, followed by a cautious smile. “Agreed. We can figure this out together.”

“Together,” Meghan repeated, the word feeling like both promise and defiance.

As they settled into their usual routine—chemistry tutoring as their public cover—Meghan felt the weight of her father’s sermon lifting slightly. The doubts hadn’t disappeared entirely, and the practical risks remained, but something fundamental had shifted. For the first time, she had faced the full force of her religious conditioning, the guilt and fear designed to keep her compliant, and she had chosen her own path.

It was a small rebellion, visible to no one but herself and Darren. Yet in that moment, seated in the quiet corner of the Boone Public Library with her chemistry textbook open between them, Meghan felt the first true stirrings of freedom.

Scene Tension: The Invisible Force That Keeps Readers Turning Pages

Fictionary’s Story Elements Series | The Pencil’s Edge

📍 Personal Note
It’s been a little over two months since my last post on Fictionary’s Story Elements. On May 19th, a biking accident abruptly paused not just my writing schedule, but much of my daily rhythm. Recovery has been slow, deliberate, and—thankfully—complete enough now that I’m able to return to the work I love most. If you’ve been following this series, thank you for your patience. I’m glad to be back.

Let’s dive into the next essential story element: Tension.

🎯 What Is Scene Tension, and Why Does It Matter?

Tension is what keeps a reader holding their breath.

It’s not just a gun going off or a villain kicking in the door. More often, it’s what simmers beneath the surface—when a character we care about wants something desperately and it’s unclear whether they’ll get it.

Fictionary defines tension as the threat of something bad happening, not the bad thing itself (that’s conflict, a separate element). Without tension, even the most beautifully written scene can feel flat or forgettable.

🧠 Think of Tension As…

  • An unanswered question: Will she get the job?
  • An emotional gamble: Will he tell her how he feels?
  • An internal ticking clock: Can she keep the secret before it slips?
  • A looming consequence: What will happen if they fail this time?

Whether subtle or overt, tension is the thread that binds the reader to your story. Lose the thread, and the book becomes easy to put down. And as writers, we never want that.

🛠 How Fictionary Helps You Track It

When using Fictionary’s StoryCoach software, every scene is evaluated for Tension. As an editor or writer, you’ll:

  • ✅ Mark a √ when the tension is strong.
  • ❌ Enter “None” if it’s absent.
  • ⚠️ Use “Weak” if it’s present but underdeveloped.
  • 🧪 Use “Manufactured” if it feels forced or disconnected from the story.
  • 📉 Use “Information” when too much is revealed and tension collapses.

💡 Want to spot weak scenes quickly? On the Story Map, select:

  • Scene Name
  • POV
  • Tension

Seeing these side-by-side helps identify exactly where (and why) your story may need a sharper edge.

✍️ Advice for Writers: How to Create Natural, Effective Tension

Tension works because we care.

So before you can create tension, you must create empathy—through character goals, emotional stakes, and meaningful relationships.

From there, tension can arise in countless ways:

Subtle Tension

A father hides a diagnosis from his daughter—while she unknowingly plans a long trip away.

In-Your-Face Tension

A woman wakes up handcuffed to a bed—and hears footsteps on the stairs.

Both are valid. Both are effective—when earned.

If your readers already trust you to take them somewhere meaningful, you don’t need to shock them. But you do need to make them care what happens next.

⚖️ What Kills Tension?

  1. Over-explaining or giving away key information too soon
  2. Flat character goals or no clear desire
  3. Too many goals in one scene, muddying the tension
  4. Obstacles that feel easy or arbitrary
  5. No stakes—the outcome doesn’t matter

Ask yourself:

“What does this character want right now? What stands in the way? And do I care whether they succeed?”

If you can’t answer those questions… neither can your reader.

🧭 Your Next Step

Review your manuscript. One scene at a time.

  • Are there at least three scenes where nothing’s at risk?
  • Have you clearly established what the POV character wants?
  • Could you hold back information to increase suspense?

Use the Scene Name + POV + Tension filter in your Story Map. It’s one of the fastest ways to spot scenes that need deeper tension—and it gives your editor (or self-editor!) a clear path to revise.

💡 Final Thought

Tension is the heartbeat of story. Not every beat has to be loud—but it must be steady.

Readers don’t just want answers—they want the uncertainty, the anticipation, the ache of not knowing.

So give them what they came for: a reason to keep reading.