George would never forget Anniston. It was the town where the Freedom Riders had been attacked by a mob and their bus firebombed. It was the only time someone had tried seriously to kill George.

He must have said yes to the man’s request for a meeting, though he could not now remember why. He assumed that a preacher from Alabama who wanted to see him would be African American, and he was startled when his assistant ushered in a white man. The Reverend Bowyer was about George’s age, dressed in a gray suit with a white shirt and a dark tie, but wearing trainers, perhaps because he had to do a lot of walking in Washington. He had large front teeth and a receding chin, and salt-and-pepper hair that accentuated the resemblance to a red squirrel. There was something vaguely familiar about him. With him was a teenage boy who looked just like him.

“I try to bring the gospel of Jesus Christ to soldiers and others working at the Anniston army depot,” Bowyer said, introducing himself. “Many of my congregation are African Americans.”

Bowyer was sincere, George thought; and he had a mixed-race church, which was unusual. “What’s your interest in civil rights, Reverend?”

“Well, sir, I was a segregationist as a young man.”

“Many people were,” George said. “We’ve all learned a lot.”

“I’ve done more than learn,” said Bowyer. “I have spent decades in deep repentance.”

That seemed a little strong. Some of the people who asked for meetings with congressmen were more or less crazy. George’s staff did their best to filter out the lunatics, but now and again one would slip through the net. However, Bowyer struck George as pretty sane. “Repentance,” George repeated, playing for time.

“Congressman Jakes,” said Bowyer solemnly, “I have come here to apologize to you.”

“What for, exactly?”

“In 1961 I hit you with a crowbar. I believe I broke your arm.”

In a flash George understood why the man looked familiar. He had been in the mob at Anniston. He had tried to hit Maria, but George had put his arm in the way. It still hurt in cold weather. George stared in astonishment at this earnest clergyman. “So that was you,” he said.

“Yes, sir. I don’t have any excuses to offer. I knew what I was doing, and I did wrong. But I have never forgotten you. I just would like you to know how sorry I am, and I wanted my son, Clam, to witness my confession of evildoing.”

George was nonplussed. Nothing like this had ever happened to him. “So you became a preacher,” he said.

“At first I became a drinker. Because of whisky, I lost my job and my home and my car. Then one Sunday the Lord led my footsteps to a little mission in a shack in a poor neighborhood. The preacher, who happened to be black, took as his text the twenty-fifth chapter of Matthew’s gospel, especially verse forty: ‘Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of these the least of my brethren, ye have done it unto me.’”