“I can make dinner, Aunt Mae.”

She waves me off with one hand. “I got a special treat at the grocery store.”

Aunt Mae hasn’t left the house in nearly two weeks. Too many long nights, too many bad dreams. Too many stares when she does go out.

But there are good days, too. Once in a while.

“You went shopping?” I ask her.

“Yes, I did.” Aunt Mae smiles at me. “I got us a frozen potpie. And some nice apples and French bread. And a red velvet cake. Just for us.”

So many things at once—so many treats—means money. My father must have finally come through. “You got a letter?”

Aunt Mae smiles wider. “It came this morning.”

She passes a slit envelope to me.

Dad is in Missouri now, I see by the postmark. Hannibal. Making his way down the river.

My father repairs boats. Unusual boats. Old boats. Wooden boats. Paddle wheelers and replica pirate ships. Between jobs he drinks too much bourbon and stands in the water, preaching and shouting about damnation and offering to baptize passersby. Once in a blue moon, someone takes him up on it.

In the letter, one ragged-edged sheet of notebook paper, he describes his latest job, working on a Mark Twain-themed tour boat. He writes about his truck, his trailer full of tools and parts, says he’s getting decent gas mileage but might need new tires soon. He talks about the water and the weather. He mentions the hundred dollars he’s sending inside.

Then there’s part of the letter that’s just for me.

Thea, I hope you’re doing good at school. Remember who’s watching out for you even when I’m not. Though you walk through the valley of the shadow, you will fear no evil, and surely goodness and mercy will follow you all the days of your life.

My father has no idea.

He may be Aunt Mae’s brother. But he’s not like us.

I slide the paper back into its envelope.

“Sounds like Josiah is doing well.” Aunt Mae watches my face. “He’s been working steadily for weeks this time.”

“Hmm,” is all I say.

“Be patient with him.” Aunt Mae puts one soft hand on top of mine. “Those who don’t have the gifts think that they want them. They don’t know the weight.”

I set the letter down.

I’ve been told all of this before. The lore of our family. The ways we aren’t just chosen, but made.

I don’t need to be told. I’ve always known what I am. Maybe that’s another part of the plan.

“Your father never had your strength,” Aunt Mae goes on. “I’ve never had your strength. I don’t know of anyone, not for generations, who was made quite like you.” She steps closer to me and takes both my hands. Her foot bumps the week’s empty whiskey bottles, setting off a tinkly music. She squeezes my hands once, tight, before letting go. “‘Thanks be unto God for his unspeakable gifts.’”