“Austin, don’t be a jerk!” said Grace. “We nearly got killed!” She turned to Reverend Warren and said, “How could you have the exit locked? That is the stupidest thing I ever heard of! What do you think an exit door is for, anyway?”

“Grace, don’t be rude,” said Macey, and Grace said, “Mace! We nearly died and you are worried about rude?”

Reverend Warren said softly, “Thank you, Austin, but the four of you are more responsibility than I can handle right now. If we’re sure that everyone is just shaken up and not hurt, I’m going to send you on home.” He said to Grace, “You are right. Chaining the bulkhead doors was stupid. But somebody broke in a few months ago when we had the children here, and he stabbed a nine-year-old. The property committee was more scared of who could break in than they were of fire.”

Macey forgot her hair.

What was hair?

A nine-year-old stabbed in a Sunday school room. An arsonist who had hit two other churches and a temple. Hell itself breathes out Contagion to this world.

Venita walked Macey a few feet away from the others. “Don’t cry,” she said. “Your hair will grow back.” Venita tilted her head and gave Macey a mischievous grin. “And one nice thing.”

“Oh, sure,” said Macey.

“Texas is real proud of saving you,” said Venita. “He’s your man, whether him and you want it or not.”

In the van, they all agreed to play this down. It just didn’t seem like the kind of publicity needed by Saturday Group or the community service program. And how could it help Good Shepherd or the sister arrangement between the churches?

“Macey’s hair is a problem,” Grace pointed out. “She’s not invisible. The rest of us don’t have proof of fire, but she sure does.”

Macey peered between the two front seats to catch a glimpse of herself in the rearview mirror. It was too narrow to show much.

“I can just say there was a minor fire in the hall,” said Macey, “and I was wearing my hair loose, and like a jerk, I went over to see if I could put it out, instead of sensibly running away like everybody else. Then I can move right on to how Austin saved me with his T-shirt.”

She did not know for sure why the others wanted to fake what had happened, but she knew why she wanted to. Everything had happened too fast; fire and talk and thought and people had spattered her like paint. She was still caught in the horrible moment when her hair smoked and a padlock sealed them in. She wanted to think about Venita and Shakespeare and broken crayons and Sunday school rooms where all the yellow paint in the world would not protect a nine-year-old.