He paused, his brow furled. “Do not think I say all this with understanding. Indeed, the King’s grace is something I long to understand but do not. Perhaps I never will. Yet I know it to be true. Had it been up to me and my comrades, things would have gone much differently for you.” He stared at me, eyes burning. “You are most fortunate it was not up to us.”

The others all in front of me, I was lost in thought as we walked toward a huddle of green hills covered with mounds of yellow daisies, so thick they seemed to be painted. The red road swept round the feet of the hills, out of the midst of which tall stones pointed upward, like jagged teeth jutting out of yellow gums. As I walked, I recited the words of the book in my hand over and over, trying to wash my mind, cleanse it so I could think the King’s thoughts.

I kept seeing needy people on the road and beside it, far more than before. Were there really so many more now, or was I seeing with different eyes?

When I saw people, I knew their stories, certain my intuition was correct—hungry children, a wife beaten by her husband, a husband deserted by his wife, a follower of the King who bore the scars of torture.

“How do you help a billion needy people?” I asked out loud. I hoped Marcus would appear again and answer me. He didn’t.

A man walked by, pale and shriveled, ravaged by disease, dry blood on his face. I looked away and walked faster on the red road, crossing momentarily under the long shadow, turning briefly to look for its source and as always, seeing nothing. I walked faster still, determined nothing should distract me from my journey to Charis.

From the side of the road, in the ditch, I heard a groan—one disturbing sound among many. A body lay there, motionless.

A well-dressed man strolled by, looked at the body in the ditch, and said, “They need streetlights here to curb crime.” He walked on.

A woman came by and said, “They need to teach self-defense courses for the elderly.” She, too, walked on.

Next came a man reading a GuideBook. He kept his nose in the book and appeared not to notice the person in the ditch. He walked on.

Another came by wearing a T-shirt with a saying from the TravelGuide. He called loudly into the ditch, “Trust the Chasm-crosser!” and walked on.

I looked into the ditch where the groan came from. Afraid, I forced myself to approach and knelt beside him, a wrinkled old man, bloodied and beaten. He was missing several teeth, and the others were brown and yellow. His dull, hollow eyes reminded me of my father’s just before he died. I wiped my cheeks.