“She . . . had a husband and a child who need her. She . . . was always . . . so very much without guile. She didn’t have to live with . . . the color of her skin being a source of controversy and scandal and grief. She could have lived a long and happy life without any of those things ever mattering to her or anyone else.” Amala let out a little sob that sounded more like a loud hiccup. “Why couldn’t it have been me, Henry? It should have been me!”

Henry lost all concern over propriety or implications in their relationship as he shot out of his chair and walked around the bed, going to his knees in front of her. He took hold of her shoulders and looked into her moist, swollen eyes. “Now you listen to me. Life and death are not some kind of random lottery, Amala. And it’s certainly not about what’s easy or convenient in regard to whatever it is we are meant to be learning or accomplishing through this mortal journey. It’s no accident that you survived when your parents were killed, and it’s no accident that you came here to live. You are a remarkable woman with so much to offer this world and the people who love you! Do you hear me? If we believe in a higher power and a bigger plan—and we do—then we must trust that God is in charge, and He knows what He’s doing. We must trust Him! I miss her, Amala, as we all do. It feels impossible and often too horrifying to grasp. But I have to believe it will get easier. Still, even in my most difficult moments of grief, I know it was her time to go. Her death was not a random accident, any more than your being alive and here is. I know it was her time to go! Do you hear me?”