She was still asleep. He stood at the doorway and looked in on her. She was sprawled diagonally under the covers, like she’d tried to reach for him and found nothing. Maybe she’d gotten up sometime in the night to look for him. The thought of her padding downstairs, checking the den, the front and back porches, calling his name—Henry? Henry, boo, where are you?—made him sick with love. Or pity. He had a strong urge to hold her, to tell her it would be all right, as if not he but somebody else were breaking her heart.

He went down to the second-floor lavatory and ran the shower. The sound of the water calmed him. He was safe. She could wake up now, and he could tell her he hadn’t been able to sleep, that he’d gone for a walk in the early morning and then, since he was up, had decided to take a shower. He leaned his head against the tiles and relished the hot water on his skin. He emptied his bladder where he stood. It burned. He’d been up for twenty-four hours, and most likely he wouldn’t have time to sleep now.

Back in the attic room he put his clothes into his suitcase, over his bundled-up wedding suit, and stepped into his last pair of clean underwear. When he turned around, Effie was rolling onto her side and squinting up at him.

“How long you been up?” she asked, pulling her hair away from her face.

“A little while,” he said. “I had trouble sleeping. How are you feeling?” He sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed her shoulder.

“Okay, I guess.” With effort she sat up, coughed and winced, and held her hand to her chest. Then she smiled at him and laid her head on his shoulder.

To his profound relief, she wanted to skip church that day. Jesus would understand. That preacher was abysmal. And they had enough to do.

“We’ll just be sure to thank Him throughout the day,” she said. “For whatever. Not aloud, but in our minds, like. ‘Thank you, Jesus, for this cup of coffee. Thank you, Jesus, for toast and butter.’”

And Jesus was pleased, obviously: a little later the radio in the den came to life—rousing orchestral music—and the end-table lamp shone. It was a miracle. Henry cried, “Thank you, Jesus!”