That’s when I saw them, swarming right in front of me, just above my head. Termites. So marvelous. At the time, I didn’t know why. Now I know. It was the light. It always is. The yard was in deep shadow, that ghastly gray-green shadow that comes just before a summer storm. But just as I saw the termites, a beam of purest white light traveled ninety-three million miles through a hole in the cloud to find them. In the brilliant light, innumerable wings glimmered silver and gold.

The movements of the tiny lights were unpredictable but ordered. They never collided. They never touched. But neither did they stray. In their swarm they held close, so close, held by the light maybe, or maybe by some kind of termite gravitational pull. It was a force that was way beyond my eight-year-old understanding. But whatever it was, it held me too.

Transfixed, I gripped my walker until I was near collapse. My mother called again. Just as she opened the door, the cloud moved and turned off the spotlight. I heard thunder and told my feet to take me inside.

“Jean, what got into you?” my mother asked cheerfully as my brace shoes scraped across the patio.

“No-thing,” I said, and my mother lifted me up and carried me the last few steps into our house.

*   *   *

You can tell it’s Sunday by the smell of pancake syrup. The big exhaust fans suck the breakfast fumes from the lodge and blow them out back, where we’re all gathered for a worship service. A quartet of counselors leads the singing. “We are climbing Jacob’s ladder.”

I have a spot in the shade, but the sun is moving up, and I hope the service will be brief. Mr. Bob says a prayer. It’s hot but still tolerable. Overall, the morning is going well. I’ve accomplished my main goal: persuading my bowels to extrude a few bullets into the toilet bowl. No need for milk of magnesia, or for lies. And this morning, no seizure to start the day. Denise is feeling good. Relief is definitely in the air along with the syrupy smell.

They sing “Kumbayah,” and I watch the sign language that goes with the words. Then “Rock of Ages.” And that’s all. There’s no sermon, no call to the spirit. Good. It’s a simple Sunday morning routine—like having pancakes for breakfast and skipping cabin cleanup.

With a handful of campers I stay where I am and watch the chairs get folded. It’s peaceful, relaxed, but Sara seems determined to stir something up.

“Rock of Ages,” she bursts out in a hick twang, “cleft for me, lay-et me hiiide myself in thee.” She leans forward and challenges us all. “I’ll buy a Coke for anyone who can tell me what that means.”