sideways, trying to get his arm behind him.
“Gun!” Dr. Gloria said.
Hootan’s arm came up with a fat black pistol. He pointed it at Luke’s head.
“Whoa whoa whoa!” I yelled. Not very helpfully.
“Your friend is evil,” Hootan said. “Say it. She is evil and deserved to die.”
Luke had pressed himself back against the passenger door, palms raised, but he didn’t seem as scared as I would be with a gun to my face. “Yes, she did evil,” the boy said. “But she isn’t—she’s not Sauron . She just made a bad decision.”
“Hootan, you can’t shoot him here,” I said. “You’ll get blood all over the car.”
“Yes, she deserved to die,” Luke said. “We all deserve to die. But God forgives.” He looked at me. “God didn’t abandon her. If she felt like He was gone, it’s because she turned away from Him .”
“Can we just get to the church?” I asked. “Fayza’s waiting for us to get back.”
Hootan said something in that unknown language. Then he slipped the gun into the front pouch of his sweatshirt. “God is not as forgiving as you think,” he said.
* * *
Pastor Rudy’s church was a former auto parts store, the plastic sign above the entrance long gone but the ghost letters still on duty, false shadows on the faded aluminum, their empty screw mounts bleeding rust. In the parking lot a few old vehicles hunkered before the nail salon, the only store in the strip mall that seemed to be open.
Luke unfolded from Hootan’s car and loped toward the church, eager as a puppy, which only annoyed Hootan more. The front door chimed as he pushed it open.
The interior was a wide-open space furnished in early AA Meeting: metal folding chairs, a coffee station, earnestness. Along the walls were long tables that held what looked like elementary school art displays.
Luke said, “Oh, let me show you mine!”
He hurried toward one of the tables. “All of us approach God from different angles. We also see a little piece of the whole. But the piece, the shard, is the same as all of God, right?”
“Hologram,” I said.
“Right! Pastor Rudy had this idea to get us all to share what we were seeing.” Luke proudly showed me a cardboard box. The side facing us was open. On top was a smaller box wrapped in tin foil. The walls inside were bright red and gold, Bollywood colors. A six-inch action figure lay facedown on the floor of the box beneath a much larger yellow umbrella. The edges of the umbrella were singed black.
“Wow,” I said. “You made this yourself?”
The boy was immune to sarcasm. “That’s me,” he said, pointing to the figure. “I can’t see God directly, because I’m facing the wrong way, toward Earth. But He’s there, protecting me. Look.” He reached behind the box, flicked a switch. Inside the tin foil box a light came on, making the umbrella glow.
Dr. G said, “His God is an umbrella.”
“Better than a wet blanket,” I said aloud.
She walked away from me, flexing her wings. “Here’s the guy,” she said.
A figure had stepped out of the back, where the storeroom used to be. My first impression was of an Olympic mid-weight wrestler: bullet head, powerful arms that wouldn’t hang straight, and a posture that suggested a readiness to shoot the legs. He wore a T-shirt with an unreadable logo, old jeans, brown-and-orange CAT work boots. His skin tone fell in the Mediterranean end of the spectrum.
“Luke. Good to see you,” he said. His accent was Mexican. “And your friends.” He held out his hand to me, and I noticed a black tattoo lurking under the lip of his sleeve. “I’m Rudy.” I shook hands. Hootan didn’t lift his hand, but conspicuously put it into the front pouch of his sweatshirt.
Rudy smiled curiously. If he was nervous, I couldn’t see it.
I said, “Luke’s been telling us about your church, how much it changed his life. We also hunger and thirst after righteousness.” I didn’t bother to sound sincere.
He looked
“Gun!” Dr. Gloria said.
Hootan’s arm came up with a fat black pistol. He pointed it at Luke’s head.
“Whoa whoa whoa!” I yelled. Not very helpfully.
“Your friend is evil,” Hootan said. “Say it. She is evil and deserved to die.”
Luke had pressed himself back against the passenger door, palms raised, but he didn’t seem as scared as I would be with a gun to my face. “Yes, she did evil,” the boy said. “But she isn’t—she’s not Sauron . She just made a bad decision.”
“Hootan, you can’t shoot him here,” I said. “You’ll get blood all over the car.”
“Yes, she deserved to die,” Luke said. “We all deserve to die. But God forgives.” He looked at me. “God didn’t abandon her. If she felt like He was gone, it’s because she turned away from Him .”
“Can we just get to the church?” I asked. “Fayza’s waiting for us to get back.”
Hootan said something in that unknown language. Then he slipped the gun into the front pouch of his sweatshirt. “God is not as forgiving as you think,” he said.
* * *
Pastor Rudy’s church was a former auto parts store, the plastic sign above the entrance long gone but the ghost letters still on duty, false shadows on the faded aluminum, their empty screw mounts bleeding rust. In the parking lot a few old vehicles hunkered before the nail salon, the only store in the strip mall that seemed to be open.
Luke unfolded from Hootan’s car and loped toward the church, eager as a puppy, which only annoyed Hootan more. The front door chimed as he pushed it open.
The interior was a wide-open space furnished in early AA Meeting: metal folding chairs, a coffee station, earnestness. Along the walls were long tables that held what looked like elementary school art displays.
Luke said, “Oh, let me show you mine!”
He hurried toward one of the tables. “All of us approach God from different angles. We also see a little piece of the whole. But the piece, the shard, is the same as all of God, right?”
“Hologram,” I said.
“Right! Pastor Rudy had this idea to get us all to share what we were seeing.” Luke proudly showed me a cardboard box. The side facing us was open. On top was a smaller box wrapped in tin foil. The walls inside were bright red and gold, Bollywood colors. A six-inch action figure lay facedown on the floor of the box beneath a much larger yellow umbrella. The edges of the umbrella were singed black.
“Wow,” I said. “You made this yourself?”
The boy was immune to sarcasm. “That’s me,” he said, pointing to the figure. “I can’t see God directly, because I’m facing the wrong way, toward Earth. But He’s there, protecting me. Look.” He reached behind the box, flicked a switch. Inside the tin foil box a light came on, making the umbrella glow.
Dr. G said, “His God is an umbrella.”
“Better than a wet blanket,” I said aloud.
She walked away from me, flexing her wings. “Here’s the guy,” she said.
A figure had stepped out of the back, where the storeroom used to be. My first impression was of an Olympic mid-weight wrestler: bullet head, powerful arms that wouldn’t hang straight, and a posture that suggested a readiness to shoot the legs. He wore a T-shirt with an unreadable logo, old jeans, brown-and-orange CAT work boots. His skin tone fell in the Mediterranean end of the spectrum.
“Luke. Good to see you,” he said. His accent was Mexican. “And your friends.” He held out his hand to me, and I noticed a black tattoo lurking under the lip of his sleeve. “I’m Rudy.” I shook hands. Hootan didn’t lift his hand, but conspicuously put it into the front pouch of his sweatshirt.
Rudy smiled curiously. If he was nervous, I couldn’t see it.
I said, “Luke’s been telling us about your church, how much it changed his life. We also hunger and thirst after righteousness.” I didn’t bother to sound sincere.
He looked
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