I watched ripples move across Zed’s stomach. He put his hand on them and grinned. “Got me a toucha heartburn. Comes from eatin’ some bad critters, I reckon.”

Standing only three feet from a wide-open cell gate, Zed talked to the wind, telling story after story about his jail-room exploits. I kept trying to convince them they were free, that the King had paid for their release, the chasm wasn’t uncrossable, and the gate wasn’t locked. I sang songs of the Chasm-crosser, hoping maybe the music would get through to them. Gordy remembered some of the words and sang with me.

Gordy got a blanket and foam-rubber pad from his cell, which he rolled up tightly, tied with a strap, then hooked on an ancient backpack he must have worn when he came to the jail sixteen years before. He and I walked off together, leaving the gate wide open behind us. I looked back and saw Zed move toward the gate. I stopped and watched. Maybe … No—he shut the door. Roy said nothing and kept playing solitaire, occasionally pausing to curse and stare at the spiders.

As Gordy and I walked back to the road, I felt overwhelmed by frustration with Zed and Roy. But suddenly I heard in the wind, coming from the west, the sounds of a great party, a celebration, filled with laughter and feasting. I wondered what the party was about, and then I looked at Gordy. Of course.

He breathed deeply and stretched out his legs and swung from tree limbs and soaked in the sunshine like a man who’d been locked up sixteen years and now was free. He seemed oblivious to the party held to celebrate his liberation, but he was having his own little freedom party and enjoying every minute. I laughed and hugged him and slapped him on the back.

When we made it to the red road, I finally got Gordy to take off his handcuffs. Of course, they’d been unlocked all along.

After nightfall it cooled down quickly, and we dropped our bags, not bothering to set up tents. We just sat around a blazing fire, laughing and singing. While dinner was cooking, Shad, the fire glowing on his face, told us tales of those who’d walked the red road before us. After the last story, eyes red and heavy with moisture and voice breaking, he said, “They passed the baton to us, and we must pass it to those who follow. May those who come behind us find us faithful—may our footprints lead them on the path of the King, to the very gates of Charis.”