Pharaoh’s Army Got Drowned

The towhead was cute as the proverbial button: about four, freckled and dressed in neat, if dusty, overalls. He reached towards the peach bushel, his hand opening and closing, his face expectant and pleading. His mother Gail, a regular customer, forced his hand to his side.

“Mind your manners, James,” she said in southern Ohio’s mild Appalachian accent that, despite decades in these hills, still rang folksy to my Chicago-raised ears.

She turned to me. “Sorry, Isaac.”

“No worries, he’s a fine lad. Here,” I handed him a sweet-smelling peach, and he leaped with glee, “on the house. Last peaches of the year, I think.”

Gail thanked me, her head down with ‘awe-shucks’ self-consciousness, before filling her basket with produce from the hand-worn display crates we used at farmers’ markets. My wife Fiona, her eyes bright and demeanor easy, rang them out with a discount, as she’d been doing since Gail lost her husband to OxyContin a while back. Done, Gail hoisted their booty and melted into the crowd milling through market stalls. I watched them, my heart heavy. Fiona neared as if sensing my pain as mother and child disappeared into the parking lot.

Fiona rubbed my arm, saying, “I fear they won’t make it.”

“Reckon not. They’ve only got a week, and they don’t know.”

“Sad.”

I agreed. And it seemed unfair since the lad was an innocent and Gail claimed Jesus as her Savior, but regardless, God didn’t let heretics like Baptists into heaven. I accepted that truth though I did not understand, for as Proverbs points out, it’s the glory of God to conceal and the glory of kings to reveal. Suffice it to say, I’m no king so I remained clueless.

Fiona sighed. “Makes me fret over Becca.”

I too fretted that God would damn our sullen teenager Becca, who’d been bad-mouthing religion and skipping church for the past few months, but staying positive I kissed Fiona’s forehead. “She’ll be fine, it’s a phase, and God knows.”

“Hope you’re right, dear.”

####

Spent, we unloaded the empty crates and bushels from the beat-up trailer towed by our ancient F-350, wheeling them next to the walk-in cooler. We’d sold out save a smattering of tomatoes and three bunches of kale, praise be, so we’d need to refill before the Athens market. I thanked the Lord for His grace, though I was tired, having been up late worrying about Becca, the Rev’s prophecy and fearing for her soul.

But tired or no, running the shop was our job. Fiona and I managed The Abbey’s business, marketing our produce: we tracked what sold at which market, issued work-orders for the field supervisor to oversee regarding how much of what to plant or harvests for maximal profit, kept the books, etc. And we sold at markets, vital to The Abbey’s survival.

Sure our job was less back-breaking than field-work, but faith-wise, it was often harder. Because five days a week, we faced non-believers in public. They yelled, connived, and we’d caught dozens trying to shoplift or cheat us. Sad. Jesus died on the cross to redeem the world, but instead of embracing Him, humans grifted.

Gripes aside though, I loved retail. God gave me the gift of gab, so I’d been a successful salesperson after college, but hawking healthy organic produce to regular folk seemed more honest than selling software to anonymous corporate buyers by a country mile.

We’d finished unloading when Squire Samuel burst in, his long, horsey seventeen-year-old face in a panic. “Y’all haven’t heard?”

“Heard what?”

“Cops arrested Rev.”

My eyebrows shot up. “What for?”

“Dunno, but Pa told me to fetch you and the missus.

####

We approached the small church that first attracted Reverend Caleb Cole, whom we called Rev, to The Abbey’s site in 2007, a fertile, hilly fifty-acres in southeastern Ohio near the West Virginia border. We bought it for a song, after the real estate market crashed, and founded The Abbey, a Christian community of forty-nine faithful sustained by an organic farm.

A gaggle of younger children hovered on the playground fifty-odd yards from the church, trying to play basketball or skip rope and look disinterested, but they were skittish. I knew they knew something was amiss. Samuel’s two large older brothers stood sentinel on the stairs as their chunky, ruddy-faced father, Brother Jon, barked like a martinet. “This is serious, so keep the kids at bay. Last thing we need is some chatty-Cathy spilling the beans at school.”

I suppressed an eye-roll since he seemed serious, as if guarding state secrets. Still, Jon’s seriousness is why the other Elders and I put him in charge of the ‘Tribulation Force,’ or ‘T-Force,’ our security team. Problem was, Jon fancied himself a militiaman while in reality, he was a glorified rent-a-cop. T-Force’s biggest duty was keeping livestock safe from coyote, fox, and bear. And while most of them had military training, I doubted seven middle-aged men who had served decades ago as cooks, fleet mechanics, and peacetime infantry could do much damage.

As we approached, Jon saw us and snapped to attention, his boys following suit. “Bishop Isaac, Mother Fiona.”

I nodded in greeting, then asked, “Why’d the cops arrest Rev?”

His nostrils flared. “Big Brother hunting down Christians, Waco all over.”

I scoffed. “Come on, I don’t need melodrama, I need facts. What for?”

He motioned to the door, and I understood he meant to keep it from the kids, which was wise, so I offered my arm to Fiona and we entered behind Jon, me bee-lining for the altar. I left her at the front pew with the other Elders’ wives and proceeded to the pulpit. As I ascended, the talk grew quiet, and all eyes turned to me. My throat dried, and I realized that with Rev gone I WAS IN CHARGE.

Yikes.

I breathed deep, calming my speeding heart, and gestured towards Fiona while my gaze swept the somber, stony-faced crowd. “We’re just back from the market and parched. Can someone get us water?” A Sister shot into the kitchen, emerging with two water bottles. I gulped half of mine and then looked at the other Elders.

“Now, what happened?”

Sister June, the community’s large-boned, large-bosomed chef cleared her throat. “The cops showed up, noonish, and took him. Now my husband and my kids are AWOL… oh, and no one’s seen the Collinses since yesterday.”

A pew squeaked and a piercing voice rose from the rear. “Don’t forget Child Services.”

I did a double-take. “The what now?”

Granny Agnes, a tight-bunned battle-ax cleared her throat and stood. “Someone filed a complaint with Child Protective Services comp, and they swooped like a swarm of locusts on families with young girls, interviewing them.”

“Girls?”

She nodded, her face grave.

My attention shot to Fiona. I couldn’t see her face, but she stared at Agnes, hand on her chest.

I said, “That can’t be, not Rev…,” my voice trailing into silence.

Fiona’s head snapped around. “You’re defending him?”

“I… why… Yes. There’s no proof. And you know, this close to the Rapture, Satan’s sowing seeds of dissent.”

She glowered before clomping for the door.

“Where are you going?”

“To check on our daughter, Isaac. To check on our daughter.”

I took two steps, following her, and then remembered my position. I was the leader. I had to stay, so I returned to the pulpit, saying, “Agnes, would you please look after them?”

She nodded her yes, and shot out the door.

####

The shell-shocked faithful were looking to me for answers, and I was clueless. The Rapture loomed six days and about eight hours away, and our spiritual guide sat in jail. I breathed deep, watching the crowd from the pulpit, and grimaced. The scene reminded me of the Tower of Babel, people yelling over each other, talking but not listening, so I flipped on the PA, slamming the lectern with a bible. Heads snapped around and people hushed.

“Calm down. Yes, this is serious, but God won’t put anything in our paths we can’t handle. But we got to work together.”

Murmurs of assent buzzed.

Grandpa Charlie, an old-timer in bib overalls, stood, and I handed him the mic. “Bishop’s right. Sure, this here arrest is the devil’s work, him corrupting them girls, planting salacious stories in their minds. But we need Rev with the Rapture approaching. Thing is, how we get him out?”

Everyone sat silent, pondering the problem I reckoned. Then I remembered a corporate trainer from back-in-the-day handing around a “talking-stick,” which seemed like fluff, but it worked in the training. So deciding to try that here, I laid down the rules. We’d hand around the mic, the amplified talking-stick. When you had it, people shut up and listened. Period. No whispering, no side-conversations, not even silent praying, but listening.

I relinquished the mic, and disregarding my rule, said a silent prayer.

And it worked. People talked, shared their fears, and said prayers until after a few minutes, they began making suggestions. We were making a plan together. Praise be.

Unfortunately, Jon took the mic and proposed storming the jail to spring Rev, people harrumphing in agreement.

I was about to take-back control when June snatched the mic. “Ain’t that... extreme? I mean, we don’t know how long they’ll hold him, where, why and whatnot. Instead of shooting up a bunch of people, maybe we can just... you know, ASK someone? And work WITH them like Christians?”

Murmurs of near-unanimous assent echoed the rafters, and I breathed deep. Because I remembered Waco and Ruby Ridge. And attacking a town? That’d be murder.

The door creaking got my attention, and Agnes motioned for me. I put another Elder in charge, reiterating the rules saying, “Don’t let anyone hog the mic. Get people’s buy-in and ideas, don’t order them.” He nodded his understanding, and I exited into the cooling fall evening.

“Becca?” I asked Agnes, somehow knowing.

She nodded. “Fiona needs your help.”

I jogged up the steep hill toward our double-wide.

####

Breathing heavy, I entered the kitchen, smelling pine cleaner and potpourri. Becca’s marching band sheet music and flute lay on the tiny kitchen desk, her shoes square to the molding on the mud flap next to the door.

“Fiona?”

“Family room, dear,” Fiona said.

She sat on the sofa, Becca’s head on her lap. I was about to speak when Fiona shushed me. Becca looked up, her eyes sullen and puffy. She’d been crying and struggled onto her elbow. I kneeled in front of her and kissed her forehead, inhaling floral shampoo.

“You okay, Becca Bear?”

She smiled, responding to her pet-name. “I guess.”

Fiona nudged Becca upright while still stroking her hair. “Tell Daddy what you told me.”

Becca’s lip quivered, her face going blank and gazing into the middle distance. “It’s my fault.”

My heart leaped to my throat, knowing but not knowing. “What is it, dear? Was it Rev?”

She nodded, wiping the tears, her fine dark-blonde hair hiding eyes.

“Did he… did he touch you?”

A sob bubbled from her chest, and then she said, “Yes, I… I… I must’ve done something. Seduced him or something.”

“Hold on, Becca Bear, he’s a man and you’re a girl.”

“He told me I tempted him, that I was a woman now, unclean and bleeding. But that he would… purify me by…” She trailed off, weeping in near silence, and I wanted to kill Rev, the snake.

####

About an hour later, I walked into the chapel, my heart heavy with hot anger and cold confusion. A few paces in, I stopped dead. Because Jon, flanked by the T-Force and Agnes, had the mic and pointed at a rough map of Babylon on a white-board, with X’s marking positions of… gunmen?

I bounded forward, taking the mic. “What the hell, an invasion plan?” I spun about, observing the crowd which had shrunk by over half. “And where are June’s supporters?”

Jon squared, challenging. But he was former military, enamored with lines of command, so he stood down, shoulders slumping. “They marched out of here.”

“Why?”

He shifted, uneasy.

Agnes cleared her throat. “If I may, Bishop Isaac.”

I nodded, letting Jon off the hook. “Go ahead.”

Agnes’s wolfish gazed pierced my soul. “It’s on account of the girls doing Satan’s bidding, spreading their legs and then spreading lies to destroy Rev. And I’ve seen them performing unspeakable rituals in the woods, sacrificing chickens and goats, bathing in blood, consorting with Beelzebub. They’ll drag us all into the pit of hell unless we stop them.”

I about choked in laughter, the accusations preposterous, but I contained myself and turned to Brother Tim who tended our livestock. “The last goat we lost was in that coyote attack this spring, right?”

He nodded. “April.”

“And the chickens?”

“Lost some to disease, but nothing out of the ordinary — good year, in fact.”

My gaze shifted to Agnes. “Now look, the facts don’t square with what you’re saying, and as the Good Book says, the truth will set you free.”

She pursed her lips, her nostrils flaring for a second, but soon slumped into her chair. “Sorry, guess I got carried away.”

“No worries.” I relaxed my gaze, taking everyone in. “Look, I want Rev freed too, but let’s not enter the Judgement with blood on our hands. I’m not saying be soft. We’re Christian warriors, to a man, but we need to take care and not fly-off half-cocked.”

All about me, sullen nods, though some brothers smiled, likely relieved that they didn’t need to shoot up the town. I turned to Tim. “Would you mind getting some kids to gather Sister June and the others? There’s a bunch out front.”

He walked to the door.

Next to me, Jon radiated malice. I needed him, needed everyone. We had only had six days and some hours until Glory, and God had charged me with shepherding the blessed until Rev returned.

So I said, “Would you walk me through your plan? In case we need it, but ONLY as a last resort, Kapeesh?”

He nodded, his malice evaporating into a grin, and grabbed a pointer.

####

Rev had ordered that we carry on with normal life during End Times, an order relayed to him from God via the Angel Gabriel. So Fionna and I needed to hit the Athens Farmers’ Market Saturday which put me in a bind since I also needed to be in Babylon to bail-out Rev. Monkeywrenching things further, Fiona was reluctant to leave Becca after learning about Agnes’s bizarre rant. So we rose as a family with the sun, loaded the trailer, traveled to Athens and set up shop. About nine, I unhitched the trailer, left Fiona and Becca to tend the store as I shot back to Babylon.

I met with Cyrus Abernathy, a short, round-faced lawyer with a JD from my alma mater Liberty U. He called around, trying to get someone to set bail for Rev, as I watched ESPN’s Ohio State pre-game coverage in the lobby. He had no luck. Babylon was a one-horse town in a Podunk county, and there were only two judges, The first was in Pittsburgh for a wedding, the second on maternity leave, and the DA would not allow bail because of the charges, rape involving minors. So Rev would rot until Monday.

I groaned. What a mess.

####

Outside Abernathy’s office. I sat in the truck, plotting next-steps. I didn’t mind freeing Rev… but from afar. He may be flawed, but he was The Abbey’s leader and one heckuva preacher. I’d attended church my entire life, but Rev’s the first preacher to light a fire in my soul. And he was a prophet, foreseeing the future, knowing the unknowable.

For instance, prophesying that Trump would win despite the odds and appoint Justices that would outlaw the abomination called abortion. That came to pass.

And Rev knew his scripture. He had decoded the numerology of Hebrew and Greek letters using the Dead Sea Scrolls and the bible to suss-out the exact date of the Rapture. And while I had a vague understanding, he could show even the most hardened atheist his calculations, derivations that aligned so precisely with world history that his predictions had to be correct.

But now that I learn he’d befouled my eighth-grade daughter, I wanted to pound Rev to a bloody pulp, a man of God or no. However, I was Bishop, second in command, and the faithful trusted me to save him. So I put The Abbey’s interests ahead of mine, ate my pride and drove to the county jail.

####

On entering the claustrophobic visitation room furnished with light-weight chrome and plastic chairs and gouged laminate tables, Rev looked scrawnier than normal. His eyes lit-up when he saw me and sat, running fingers through his limp, thinning hair.

He asked, voice expectant, “You gonna bail me out?”

I wanted to slug him, but breathed, thinking 'turn the other cheek.' Calmed by scripture, I recapped the situation. Rev muttered platitudes about patience and godliness, but I remained silent, not wanting to hear a child rapist’s sanctimony. He finished, and I stood, saying in a curt, flat voice that I had to return to the Athens market and pack.

He leaned forward. “You know, I’m sensing hostility, what gives?”

I steeled my gaze. “Becca told us.”

A look a fear flashed across his face, followed by his typical, saintly expression. “Told you what?”

I pursed my lips, rising to my considerable height, looming over him. “About you molesting her, and then telling her it was her fault. Treating a little girl like that ain;t right, Rev, and you know it..”

His jaw set, he said, “Now that’s a lie. You know how the father of lies can corrupt the innocent.”

My nostrils flared, and I saw red. “Innocence? You took her innocence, and you call yourself a man of God?”

“Lies…”

My heart surged and my ears pinned back, enraged at him calling my Becca a liar. Before I knew it, I’d overturned the table, snagged his collar and lifted him from the floor as he kicked at my shins. I twisted the collar tight, making it hard for him to breathe. I shook him, growling, and banged him into the wall, the color draining from his face.

A beat later, two guards wrestled me to the ground, and another whisked Rev towards his cell. I thrashed as the guards dragged me away… and then I relaxed. Because they’d saved me, praise be. Without them, I may have killed him, and gone to judgment like Cain, with murder of a holier man than I staining my soul.

####

Sunday seemed odd without Rev, the missing believers and the unspoken fact of molestation. I held a service, and while I can hold a crowd, I’m no Rev: he had ‘it,’ I didn’t. And unlike a typical Sunday, where we’d socialize after the service, that day we drifted into our separate homes like ghosts.

After Lunch, Jon and I met at my kitchen table with the other Elders, them hashing out our plans as I sat, silent, my mind half on my daughter. Since I was the business manager, the only person besides Rev with free access to our accounts, they figure I'd hit Babylon in the morning and wait until Rev’s arraignment to pay bail. Jon and another T-Force member would accompany me, scouting the town square for the jail-break in case I failed. And we’d travel home together.

I objected, sharing what Becca told us and recapping my fight with Rev. Being fathers themselves, they understood but pointed out that even the best among us were flawed. David had Uriah killed to bed his wife Bathsheba, for instance.

So we prayed on it, and the Lord answered our prayers, revealing to me a plan. I’d drive my Prius into town alone, while Jon would drive the truck to whisk Rev home. So I could attend court, pay the bail, and yet never be near Rev. It was so clear, so simple, so God-inspired my heart fluttered with joy.

It would work. Praise be.

####

I woke at five-twenty-five and swung my feet to the floor, rubbing the sleep from my eyes when I noticed Fiona wasn’t there. So I opened the door, my voice echoing down the hall: “Fiona.”

No reply, no lights, no scent of brewing coffee or other hints of her presence. Odd, but not unheard of. Fiona was a trained naturopath, so someone must have gotten ill in the night. I started the coffee brewing, took a quick shower, and got ready for court. For the first time in ages, I donned my navy suit, blue-striped shirt, and power tie. And then I ate breakfast and poured a huge mug of coffee.

It was too early to head into town, so I flicked on the TV and watched a rerun of last night’s 700 Club as I drank coffee. Pat Robertson looked old, but he was a Godly man, albeit doomed to Hell being a Pentecostal. The broadcast moved from Pat's opening to an interesting discussion, led by his beautiful, wholesome co-host, about the bible-based “Maker’s Diet,” ditching processed foods in favor of foodstuffs scripture recommends, like grains, fruits, and veggies, fish, beef, dairy, chicken, eggs, and whatnot. Jewish researchers found that eating a Maker’s Diet improved both your health and your inner microbiome. Fascinating. The Good Book contains infinite, infallible wisdom.

In the silent pause between Robertson and a commercial, I heard Becca’s alarm. After the commercial, it was still beeping. I groaned. Every year, Becca grew more like her mother, hitting snooze three, four, even five times and then rushing around to avoid being tardy. But it was late, and she had school, so I went to wake her.

At her door, my heart dropped.

Her room was empty.

I ran to the front door, and as I expected, our car was gone.

I grokked the situation. Like the Collinses, they’d run to the authorities. I was pissed. They’d screwed-up my plans, and yet another part of me waxed ecstatic, because, fuck Rev, the pedophile bastard.

But I had work to do.

So I donned my Brooks Brothers jacket, stepping into the cool morning air, smelling the spice of fall leaves, and walked towards Rev’s place to borrow a car from his wife when I stopped, dead in my tracks. Our Prius sat in front of the church. I bee-lined for it, noting a creased fender and bashed-in door. The F-350, parked behind the Prius, came into view, its grill shattered.

My heart leaped, and in a flash I understood: the T-Force had run them down, the fuckers.

I sprinted fast as I could to the chapel, stopping at the front entrance when I stumbled upon Jon’s eldest standing guard, rifle at the ready. I raised my hands as I caught my breath, and then pretending to be mad said, “Is my wife in there? That faithless woman kidnapped our child.”

Shoulders relaxing, he lowered his weapon. “Yessir.”

I mounted the stairs. “Becca too?”

He nodded, leaning the rifle against the door jamb and reaching for a coffee.

Without warning, I popped him in the chin so hard he thudded to the floor, out cold. I grabbed the church keys, snagged the rifle and entered. Bound and gagged with duct tape, Fiona and Becca huddled on the floor, straining against their bonds, as Agnes sat on a pew reading scripture over them, her voice hard.

When she saw me, she shot to her feet.

“What do you want, Bishop?”

“My family.”

She scowled. “You’re doing the devil’s work, you know. Remember what Jesus says about the end days, brother turning against brother, father against son.”

I nodded, a sneer on my lip. “And me against you, it seems. I may burn in hell for it, but fuck it. That’s my wife and our daughter, and she’s in pain, so let my people go.”

She scoffed, raising a handgun hip-high. But before she could aim I leaped, smashing her hand with the rifle butt, and she howled in pain. Kicking the pistol towards my wife, I grabbed a knife off the altar, slicing their bonds, feeling like Moses freeing the Chosen.

####

Of all places, I dropped them at a nearby Catholic church. The pastor was a regular customer at the Babylon market, and even though he followed the pope and would burn in hell, he seemed righteous. Besides, he had practice shielding migrant workers from the authorities, so keeping Fiona and Becca safe from the bumbling T-Force would be child’s play.

Oath kept.

But I still had one more oath to keep: freeing Rev for the community. So over Fiona’s objections, I headed for the courthouse.

Where I waited.

And waited.

And waited,

I think I saw a dozen indictments or trials — boring stuff, don’t believe what you see on Law and Order — before Rev entered, Cyrus scuttling through the door to take his place at the counsel’s table. No boring details, since Rev’s trial was dull too, but for all I cared, he could rot 'till kingdom come.

But in the end, since Rev had nowhere to go except The Abbey where dozens of families under his sway had children he could victimize, the judge denied Rev bail. Cyrus objected, but the judge stood firm. They dragged away Rev, his face stunned and pale.

####

Outside the courthouse, Jon marched to my side. “Well?”

“Sorry, the judge said no bail.”

Jon’s face went red. “God will remember their wickedness and punish them for their sins.”

“Have no fear, I have Cyrus filing an appeal—” I palmed my forehead. “Shit, Cyrus. I haven’t paid Cyrus.”

I turned to assuage Jon, but he was marching down the street muttering to himself. Bemused, I bolted up the courthouse steps. What a snowflake.

And then, I heard the pops.

At first, I thought it was firecrackers. But people around me ran for the door, one crumbling as his leg burst scarlet, and I realized Jon’s band of dumbasses were executing his cockamamy plan. I sprang to my feet, running down the stairs. I had to stop them. About halfway down, I halted. Jon marched down the sidewalk, AR at the ready.

“Stop,” I said at the top of my lungs, “before you kill anyone.”

He smiled a cold, fish-eyed smile. “Judas. Agnes and my boy told me what you did.” He raised the gun, and I saw flashes of fire, hearing pop, pop, pop, pop, pop a beat later.

My side burned. My left arm burned. My right thigh burned. I tried to run, but slipped, falling down the steps, my head thudding to the concrete. Stars flashed before my eyes, and reality flicked off, going ink-black and silent.

####

I was lucky to have survived. Four of the five rounds Jon fired at me hit. He hit me twice in the gut: one round catching nothing but love-handle, and the other hitting the checkbook in my breast pocket, which slowed the bullet so it lodged in abdominal muscle, hitting nothing vital, praise be, though I had a bad case of sepsis. The other two rounds hit extremities, one lodging in my thigh doing no serious damage, the other shattering my forearm.

The T-Force wasn’t so lucky. Cops killed five of the seven, including Jon, and a sixth was in intensive care a floor above me.

Afterward, the FBI and ATF raided The Abbey, finding nothing. Except for the T-Force idiots, we weren’t Waco nutjobs stockpiling weapons like we were readying for a zombie apocalypse. They’d even interrogated me, and I told them the truth: I saw Jon plan the assault, but never expected him to go through with it.

####

Ten days later, the doctor discharged me. Fiona packed as I told stupid jokes about being the Lion of Babylon and getting the Congressional Medal of Honor, Becca giggling. It lifted my heart to hear that sound since she’d been so glum for so long.

And then realizing something, I did a double-take, my gaze snapping to Fiona. “Hey, Fiona, it just dawned on me, we’re, what… a week into the Tribulation?”

She glanced up and left, calculating. “Five days.”

“And nothing?”

“Not a horseman in-sight.”

I was about to scoff at the fraud Rev was but stopped. I’d seen his numerology and read the prophecies in Daniel and Revelations. Rev was right. The world SHOULD HAVE ended five days ago. But the Lord had spared us! Praise be.

Despite overwhelming scriptural evidence that everyone except a few believers would die a fiery death when Planet X smashed into the earth, He let us live. Because He loves us. I don’t understand how anyone reads the bible, realizes its unutterable accuracy, and still closes themselves off from His love.

I jumped up, wincing at the pain but raring to go. I could not wait to witness this to the world, to win more souls for God’s glory.

I grabbed my cane. Praise be.

I shuffled to the hall, all smiles. Praise be.

Kissing Fiona’s cheek, I plopped onto a wheelchair as an orderly carried me home. Praise be.

THE END