Royal King said, “We got some reporters in town.”

“Oh, no,” Millie said.

“Yep. You can tell ’cause they have them fifty-dollar haircuts.”

“I’m sorry, Mom. I didn’t want to bring trouble to town.”

“Oh, fudge bumps,” Ethel said. “We can handle ’em.”

“That’s right,” Royal said. “Like a brush fire.”

“Royal’s the fire chief,” Ethel said. “He moved up from Santa Clarita a couple of years ago. He drives me to church on Sundays and Wednesday nights.”

It had been a long time since Millie had thought about her mother’s church. Ethel had attended it faithfully for fifty years now. There was something magnificent in that, even if Millie did not share the beliefs she had been taught there many years ago.

“How is the church doing, Mom?”

“She just keeps rolling along, like that song about the river and the old man who lives in it.”

“Old Man River?” Millie said.

“No, but there’s a song like it with the same title,” Ethel said.

Millie smiled.

“I think you’re going to like our pastor,” Ethel added.

So it begins, Millie thought.

“He’s a real good preacher,” Royal volunteered. “I like his style.”

“Oh?” Millie said casually, being polite about the conversation. In her mind she pictured an older man, perhaps a few years short of retirement, who was making one last stop at the church before his dotage. He’d be full of the old bromides and warnings of hellfire, damnation, and the wages of sins such as dancing and drink. She hoped, if she did meet him, that it would be a short meeting.

“He’s not the kind of preacher you might think,” Ethel said. “He’s had a lot of tragedy in his life.”

“A ton,” Royal said.

“And he received mercy,” Ethel said, “so he gives it out. He ministers to runaway teenagers down in Lancaster. For nothing.”

“Because of what happened with his own daughter,” Royal added.

Millie felt a vague interest in knowing the story, but said nothing.

“And can he pray!” Ethel said. “You should have heard him the night of your accident.”

“What?”

“Yep. That very night, at prayer meeting, I asked for prayer for you. I felt troubled about you for some reason. It was heavy upon me.”

“I remember,” Royal said. “She was almost crying.”

This was odd. “What kind of trouble did you think I was in?”

“I didn’t know, exactly. But I remember the time. I surely do. I felt the Lord leading and looked at the big clock. It was 10:35.”

Millie said, “You were up late.”

“We pray long sometimes,” Royal said. “Pastor really believes in prayer.”

Sure he does, Millie thought. He’s supposed to. So are church people. When she was a little girl, she had, too. But now…

Millie’s mind suddenly snapped to attention. “What time did you say, Mom?”

“What time what?”

“When you looked at the clock.”

“I said 10:35. Yes, sir.”

“Are you absolutely sure?”

“’Course I am. I can still see. Why are you asking?”

Millie did not say, but began to feel cold all over. If it was 10:35 on the west coast, it was 1:35 on the east.

The very time Dr. Cross said she’d flatlined.

The very time she’d had her vision.

“You all right, dear?” Ethel asked.

“Sorry, Mom. I just got a headache.”

“Don’t let’s talk anymore. Royal, you drive nice and smooth now. Let my daughter rest.”

Oh, yes. Sweet rest. She needed that.

But she knew she could not rest. Not now.

It felt like a time warp when Millie saw the old house. Her mother still lived here, would never think of leaving. Wouldn’t even consider changing the basic look of the place. Adobe style on the outside with a flagstone walkway. Cactus plants in the garden under the front window. The lone oak tree that stood like a sentry guarding the ghosts of the past. She’d read books under it as a little girl. Desert shade for an inquiring mind.

The house, built by her father and a group of locals when Millie was ten (she helped dig out the tiny portion of sandy dirt that became the back steps), looked just as it did in the sixties. The capricious weather of California’s high desert (though the townspeople hated high desert as a designation; not good for tourism) seemed to have paid it respect and treated it gently over the years. There was a solidity about it that provided comfort.

Royal scurried around to the passenger side of the car and opened the door for Millie. She swung her legs out carefully, remembering what Dr. Cross said about her ribs – no sudden movements or turns.

A rivulet of warm desert air caressed her face, bringing with it the scent of sage and wildflowers. It was soothing and familiar. There was nothing quite like the breezes here, and she’d loved them growing up. The air was simple, unpretentious. Above all, clean. Not filled with the waste of busses and cars and industry. The act of breathing here was unpressured.

Yes, coming home was the right thing to do. Healing could happen here. Quiet rest. She wouldn’t have to think about anything. The desert did not make demands on you. It did not ask you questions. This was just the place to regain equilibrium, forget thoughts of death and dark visions. Become normal again.

Royal popped the trunk and started getting Millie’s bags. A noise made Millie look up, toward the roof. The sun was behind the house and she had to squint. But there was definitely something moving on top of the house.

Her first thought was that a TV reporter had managed to precede them. He was lying in wait until the car came, ready to get his exclusive. She almost ducked her head. Then she noticed the ladder against the house. Whoever was up there must be a worker of some sort.

“Hey there, Ethel,” the worker said, leaning over the edge of the roof.

“Come down offa there,” Ethel said. “Meet my daughter.”

Terrific. All Millie wanted to do was go inside, into her old room where her mother still kept a bed, and sleep. She was not in any mood to talk to strangers.

But this was her mother’s house. She would follow the rules. A quick greeting, then inside.

The worker came into focus now. Millie first noticed his denim work shirt splotchy with sweat. He had a leather tool belt around his waist and wore blue jeans.

As he descended the ladder she noticed that his tanned arms, glistening with perspiration, were strong. This was a man who did not shy away from hard work.

When he turned from the ladder Millie was greeted by a friendly pair of eyes with a set of hard wrinkles at each corner. His hair was dark with a hint of gray at the temples. He looked about her age.

His face was not that of a construction worker, but of an academic. Strange, but he looked like a young Thomas Riley, her colleague on the Court. And everyone said when Tom Riley was a young lawyer in Wyoming, he was the spittin’ image of Gary Cooper – solid, rugged, quintessentially American.

“Howdy,” he said, taking out a red bandanna and wiping his hands. He extended it. “I’m Jack Holden.”

Millie caught sight of her mother grinning off to the side. She shook his hand. “Millie Hollander.”

“Welcome home.”

She forced a smile and a nod, but felt the slightest bit put off by the sentiment. Who was he to welcome her to her own childhood residence?

“That’s Pastor Jack,” Ethel said.

Oh no, Mother, Millie thought, you didn’t. You didn’t set me up to meet this man, did you?

“So nice to meet you,” Millie said without enthusiasm. Then she noticed what looked like a string of faded, colored beads around his neck. It reminded her of the hippies in the sixties.

“Heard a lot about you,” Holden said. “Personally I’d like to say it’s a privilege to meet you. I visited the Supreme Court once.”

“How nice.”

“Didn’t hear an argument, though. Wondered what I’d do if I ever had to make one.”