He stared at the repaired radio, then slowly, almost reverently, laid his hands on it, feeling its solidness, its worth, and knowing that it was he who had given it back its purpose.

Maybe, in a way, this was what redemption was all about; not condemning yourself for past sins but learning to live with them, with the guilt and shame and hurt and pitiless bouts of self-loathing, while trying to get on with the business of living, contributing what little you could to make things easier for those who shared the planet with you; maybe, in some obscure way that only Heaven fully comprehended, these little things, these tiny kindnesses and acts of reparation, maybe they, bit by bit, one dark spot at a time, balanced out the shadow of your sin, whatever it may be.

At times like this, Timothy could almost believe in the love of God, could almost believe in mercy and forgiveness.

Almost.

His reverie was broken by another thunderclap and the loud, persistent scritch-ing noise made by the branches of the cedar tree outside as the high winds bent them down against the metal roof of the garage.

Tim looked out the window and saw the silhouette of Morse at the kitchen sink. Doubting the supervisor would see it, he waved.

The silhouette did not wave back but instead moved away from the window, in the direction of the downstairs bathroom.

Told you that second can of Pepsi’d make your bladder madder, thought Tim.

He busied himself with straightening up his work area in preparation for tomorrow night when he was going to tackle a troublesome portable color television set. If prison had left him with nothing else, it had, at least, taught him some useful skills.

Like how to bleed rectally, he thought, not without a touch of bitterness.

Then again, you don’t really deserve anything better, do you?

(I sick, Daddy...)

The sound of the branches against the roof was getting a lot louder now, nagging and rhythmic.

Daddy, Daddy, I sick, Daddy…Daddy, Daddy, I sick...

Time to pack it up and go beddy-bye.

He looked once more upon the repaired radio (which belonged to his parole officer, for whom Timothy was fixing it as a favor) and felt a sense of pride and accomplishment.

A good day’s work, yessir.

And with a heart as close to peaceful as anything he’d known for the last thirteen years, Timothy Beals climbed down off his stool, stretched his back, groaned, and was reaching for the light switch when half the roof was torn off the garage.

At first he couldn’t get his head wrapped around what he was seeing—it looked too much like something from a Saturday morning cartoon, the metal just peeling back like a lid on a can of tuna—but after a second or two, after the coldness and violence of the rain drenched his face and torso with all the gentility of shattered glass, he rallied himself to get the hell out of there and back to the house because any wind strong enough to rip half the roof from a garage could sure as hell lift a man off his feet and make him do a Dorothy-into-Oz, so he grabbed his coat and started for the door—