I was magnificent, is what I’m saying. In my vision I was everything I ever dreamed I could be, a leader of people who adored me. It was confirmation that my visions were in fact a gift, that what once had gotten me punished and shunned was a blessing to the world, the most precious anointing. It meant I wasn’t a freak, wasn’t one of the afflicted, but a set-apart one, a chosen one, holy in my own right. It was proof that Mom hadn’t died in vain, that her death had led me to the Farm, where I could find my destiny, where my gift would reach its fulfillment. Every moment in my life had been part of a grander plan, the good and the bad, and all of it existed to bring me here.

I would lead the Farm, all my true believers following my every word. And oh, according to this vision, there would be many of them spanning the globe, and my visions would be broadcast loud for the world to hear. All people would know my name.

I saw Cass onstage beside me, leading the congregation in song. I saw Grandma and Sheriff Bearden, my right- and left-hand guards. I saw Mr. Cartwright in the front row, sober for the first time, grinning and clapping, singing hymns with his eyes closed. I saw Wilmer Jenkins and Willamette Darling and Byron and even Kent Knoll in the crowd, with eyes shut, hands outstretched, receiving every word and song from my mouth as if it were a gift, as if it were the dictation of the Spirit itself. Which of course it was.

Everyone was there, all of them, everyone I had ever known. There was only one person missing: Murphy wasn’t there. My sister, who should have stood at my side, my sworn guardian, my keeper since we were kids. I looked everywhere in the room, but I couldn’t find Murphy.

But then I saw her, or someone who seemed to be her, lurking in the darkest corner of the room. Murphy had changed. She looked monstrous, her eyes narrowed into slits, her teeth grown into fangs. Yes, there was Murphy, always creeping around the fringes of things, the spoiler, the ruiner, the one who would try and steal it all from me. Had she not rejected the Spirit as it had brought forth talents in her? Had she not rejected me as a leader, the Spirit’s own chosen prophet?