“Your jacket goes against our rules,” Pastor Hepishare called to me from behind. I turned around. “It’s the wrong color,” he said, marching toward me, then jabbing my chest with his index finger.

In an explosion, my right fist smashed into his face. He lay flat on the ground, unconscious. Frodo barked wildly. It felt good. I’d wanted to do that for years.

I remembered why I hated religion so much, why I’d always hated it. When a man came looking for relief from the heavy load he carried, religion laid a pallet of bricks on his back.

“You’ve seen Shad’s religion, the religion of the GuideBook,” Joshua said, pulling close to me. “Is this what you’re searching for?”

I shook my head.

“I have others who need my guidance now,” Joshua said. “I must go to them, but I’ll return in a few hours. Just find some shade and relax. I’ll be back. Will you be all right?”

I nodded and watched him walk into some thick vine maples with a rich tapestry of fall colors. He disappeared.

Just that moment I heard footsteps behind me and turned to see Shad, fifteen feet away, waving frantically. He ran up to me, breathless.

“Where have you been?” he demanded.

I shrugged.

“Nick,” he said, “I still need to explain to you the way of the red road, the way to the chasm.”

“Your way’s not for me, old man.”

“But how do you know if you won’t let me explain it—and if you won’t walk with me far enough on the red road to see whether my words are true?”

“Joshua already showed me your way,” I said. “It’s not for me.”

“Joshua? What did he show you?”

I told him what had happened.

“The one you’ve chosen as your guide,” Shad said, “did not show you the followers of the King, for those you can find only on the red road. You saw counterfeits. Before you reject something, be sure you know what it really is. Perhaps when you next gain your sixty seconds of clarity, you should look more closely at your friend Joshua!”

I raised my hand at him like a traffic cop indicating “Stop.” I turned and walked off by myself. If I couldn’t find answers on the roads, maybe I could sort out the voices warring inside me—Joshua’s, Shad’s, the Woodsman’s, the voices on the roads, and fifty years of my own voice.

When the sun began to set and low clouds turned to crimson fire, I climbed a hill to watch. As I reached the crest, I looked down at someone in a black flowing robe, standing on the hillside, looking away from me, down over the roads. Instinctively, I ducked into a thick-branched willow tree and watched as the breeze parted the branches just enough for me to see.